1AIN(V3WV 


=  t 


1X> 


oo 


'0/. 


i  i  r  i|iii\  iVT\t 


oc 

CO 


m 


PLAYS  BY  AUGUST  STRINDBERG 

Published  by  CHARLES  SCRIBNERS  SONS 


PLAYS.  FIRST  SERIES:  The  Dream 
Play,  The  Link,  The  Dance  of  Death — 
Part  I  and  Part  II $1.50««l 

PLAYS.  SECOND  SERIES:  There  are 
Crimes  and  Crimes,  Miss  Julia,  The 
Stronger,  Creditors,  Pariah       ....  $1.50  net 

PLAYS.  THIRD  SERIES:  Swanwhite, 
Simoom,  Debit  and  Credit,  Advent,  The 
Thunder  Storm,  After  the  Fire 

(postage  extra)  SI. 50  net 


creditors,    pariah 75  cents  net 

miss  julia.    the  stronger  .    .    75  cents  net 

THERE  ARE  CRIMES  AND  CRIMES     75  Cents  net 


PLAYS 

BY 

AUGUST    STRINDBERG 

THIRD    SERIES 


PLAYS 


BY 

AUGUST   STRINDBERG 

THIRD    SERIES 

SWANWHITE 

SIMOOM 

DEBIT    AND    CREDIT 

ADVENT 

THE    THUNDERSTORM 

AFTER    THE    FIRE 

TRANSLATED   FROM    THE    SWEDISH    WITH    AN    INTRODUCTION    BY 

EDWIN   BJORKMAN 


AUTHORIZED    EDITION 


NEW  YORK 
CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 

1914 


Copyright,  1913,  by 
CHARLES   SCRIBNER'S  SONS 


Published  October,  1913 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

Introduction 1 

Swanwhite 11 

Simoom 65 

Debit  and  Credit 79 

Advent 105 

The  Thunderstorm 181 

After  the  Fire 229 


907C1, 


INTRODUCTION 


INTRODUCTION 

The  collection  of  plays  contained  in  this  volume  is  unu- 
sually representative,  giving  what  might  be  called  a  cross- 
section  of  Strindberg's  development  as  a  dramatist  from  his 
naturalistic  revolt  in  the  middle  eighties,  to  his  final  arrival 
at  resigned  mysticism  and  Swedenborgian  symbolism. 

"Swanwhite"  was  written  in  the  spring  of  1901,  about  the 
time  when  Strindberg  was  courting  and  marrying  his  third 
wife,  the  gifted  Swedish  actress  Harriet  Bosse.  In  the  fall 
of  1902  the  play  appeared  in  book  form,  together  with  "The 
Crown  Bride"  and  "The  Dream  Play,"  all  of  them  being 
issued  simultaneously,  at  Berlin,  in  a  German  translation 
made  by  Emil  Schering. 

Schering,  who  at  that  time  was  in  close  correspondence 
with  Strindberg,  says  that  the  figure  of  Stvanwhite  had  been 
drawn  with  direct  reference  to  Miss  Bosse,  who  had  first 
attracted  the  attention  of  Strindberg  by  her  spirited  inter- 
pretation of  Biskra  in  "Simoom."  And  Schering  adds  that 
it  was  Strindberg's  bride  who  had  a  little  previously  intro- 
duced him  to  the  work  of  Maeterlinck,  thereby  furnishing 
one  more  of  the  factors  determining  the  play. 

Concerning  the  influence  exerted  upon  him  by  the  Belgian 
playwright-philosopher,  Strindberg  himself  wrote  in  a  pam- 
phlet named  "Open  Letters  to  the  Intimate  Theatre"  (Stock- 
holm, 1909): 

"I  had  long  had  in  mind  skimming  the  cream  of  our  most 
beautiful  folk-ballads  in  order  to  turn  them  into  a  picture 
for  the  stage.     Then  Maeterlinck  came  across  my  path,  and 

3 


4  INTRODUCTION 

under  the  influence  of  his  puppet-plays,  which  are  not  meant 
for  the  regular  stage,  I  wrote  my  Swedish  scenic  spectacle, 
'Swanwhite.'  It  is  impossible  either  to  steal  or  to  borrow 
from  Maeterlinck.  It  is  even  difficult  to  become  his  pupil, 
fur  there  are  no  free  passes  that  give  entrance  to  his  world  of 
beauty.  But  one  may  be  urged  by  his  example  into  search- 
ing one's  own  dross-heaps  for  gold — and  it  is  in  that  sense 
acknowledge  my  debt  to  the  master. 

"Pushed  ahead  by  the  impression  made  on  me  by  Maeter- 
linck, and  borrowing  his  divining-rod  for  my  purposes,  I 
turned  to  such  sources  [i.  e.,  of  Swedish  folk-lore]  as  the 
works  of  Geijer,  Afzelius,  and  Dybeck.  There  I  found  a 
superabundance  of  princes  and  princesses.  The  stepmother 
theme  I  had  discovered  on  my  own  hook  as  a  constant — it 
figures  in  twenty-six  different  Swedish  folk-tales.  In  the 
same  place  I  found  the  resurrection  theme,  as,  for  instance, 
it  appears  in  the  story  of  Queen  Dagmar.  Then  I  poured  it 
all  into  my  separator,  together  with  the  Maids,  the  Green 
Gardener  and  the  Young  King,  and  in  a  short  while  the  cream 
began  to  flow — and  for  that  reason  the  story  is  my  own.  But 
it  has  also  been  made  so  by  the  fact  that  I  have  lived  through 
that  tale  in  my  own  fancy — a  Spring  in  time  of  Winter!" 

Swedish  critics  have  been  unanimous  in  their  praise  of  this 
play.  John  Landquist,  who  has  since  become  Strindberg's 
literary  executor,  spoke  of  it  once  as  "perhaps  the  most 
beautiful  and  most  genuine  fairy  tale  for  old  or  young  ever 
written  in  the  Swedish  language."  Tor  Hedberg  has  mar- 
velled at  the  charm  with  which  Swanwhite  herself  has  been 
endowed— "half  child,  half  maid;  knowing  nothing,  yet 
guessing  all;  playing  with  love  as  a  while  ago  she  was  play- 
ing with  her  dolls."  On  the  stage,  too — in  Germany  as  well 
BS  in  Sweden — little  Swanwhite  has  celebrated  great  triumphs. 
Whether  that  figure,  and  the  play  surrounding  it,  will  also 


i 


I  N THODUCTION  5 

triumph  in  English-speaking  countries,  remains  still  to  !><• 
seen.  But  if.  contrary  to  my  hopes,  il  should  fail  to  do  so,  I 
want,  in  advance,  to  shift  the  blame  from  the  shoulders  of  the 
author  to  my  own.  In  hardly  any  other  work  by  Strind- 
berg  do  form  and  style  count  for  so  much.  The  play  is, 
in  its  original  shape,  as  poetical  in  form  as  in  spirit— even 
to  the  extent  of  being  strongly  rhythmical  in  its  prose,  and 
containing  many  of  the  inversions  which  are  so  character- 
istic of  Swedish  verse. 

It  is  not  impossible  to  transfer  these  qualities  into  English, 
but  my  efforts  to  do  so  have  had  to  be  influenced  by  certain 
differences  in  the  very  grain  of  the  two  languages  involved. 
Like   all    other  languages,  each   possesses    a    natural    basic 
rhythm.      This  rhythm  varies  frequently  and  easily  in  Swe- 
dish, so  that  you  may  pass  from  iambic  to  trochaic  metre 
without  giving  offence  to  the  ear — or  to  that  subtle  rhyth- 
mical   susceptibility  that  seems  to  be  inherent  in  our  very 
pulses.     But  the  rhythm  dearest  and  most  natural  to  the  ge- 
nius of  the  Swedish  language  seems  to  be  the  falling  pulse- 
l.eat  manifested  in  the  true  trochee.     The  swing  and  motion 
of  English,  on  the  other  hand,  is  almost  exclusively,  com- 
mandingly  iambic.     And  it  was  not  until  I  made  the  iambic 
rising  movement  prevail  in  my  translation,  that  I  felt  myself 
approaching  the  impression  made  on  me  by  the  original.     But 
for  that  very  reason — because  the  genius  of  the  new  medium 
has  forced  me  into  making  the  movement  of  my  style  more 
monotonous— it  is  to  be  feared  that  the  rhythmical  quality 
of  that  movement  may  seem  overemphasised.     Should  such 
a  criticism  be  advanced,  I  can  only  answer:   I  have  tried 
several  ways,  and  this  is  the  only  one  that  will  work. 

"Simoom"  seems  to  have  been  written  in  1888,  in  close 
connection  with  "Creditors"  and  "Pariah."     And,  like  these, 


6  INTRODUCTION 

it  shows  the  unmistakable  influence  of  Edgar  Allan  Poe, 
with  whose  works  Strindberg  had  become  acquainted  a  short 
while  before.  The  play  was  first  printed  in  one  of  the  three 
thin  volumes  of  varied  contents  put  out  by  Strindberg  in 
1890  and  1891  under  the  common  title  of  "Pieces  Printed 
and  Fnprinted."  But,  strange  to  say,  it  wras  not  put  on  the 
stage  (except  in  a  few  private  performances)  until  1902, 
although,  from  a  purely  theatrical  viewpoint,  Strindberg- 
master  of  stagecraft  though  he  was — had  rarely  produced 
a  more  effective  piece  of  work. 

"Debit  and  Credit"  belongs  to  the  same  general  period  as 
the  previous  play,  but  has  in  it  more  of  Nietzsche  than  of 
Poe.  Its  central  figure  is  also  a  sort  of  superman,  but  as 
such  he  is  not  taken  too  seriously  by  his  creator.  The  play 
has  humour,  but  it  is  of  a  grim  kind — one  seems  to  be  hearing 
the  gritting  of  teeth  through  the  laughter.  Like  "Simoom," 
however,  it  should  be  highly  effective  on  the  stage.  It  was 
first  published  in  1893,  with  three  other  one-act  plays,  the 
volume  being  named  "Dramatic  Pieces." 

"Advent"  was  published  in  1899,  together  with  "There 
Are  Crimes  and  Crimes,"  under  the  common  title  of  "In  a 
Higher  Court."  Its  name  refers,  of  course,  to  the  ecclesias- 
tical designation  of  the  four  weeks  preceding  Christmas. 
The  subtitle,  literally  rendered,  would  be  "A  Mystery." 
Hut  as  this  term  has  a  much  wider  application  in  Swedish 
than  in  English,  I  have  deemed  it  better  to  observe  the  dis- 
tinction which  the  latter  language  makes  between  mys- 
teries, miracle-plays,  and  moralities. 

The  play  belongs  to  what  Strindberg  called  his  "Inferno 
period,"  during  which  he  struggled  in  a  state  of  semi-madness 
to  rid  himself  of  the  neurasthenic  depression  which  he  re- 
garded  as  a  punishment  broughl  about  by  his  previous  atti- 
tude ..f  materialistic  scepticism.     It  is  full  of  Swedenbor- 


INTRODUCTION  7 

gian  symbolism,  which,  perhaps,  finds  its  most  characteris- 
tic expression  in  the  two  scenes  laid  in  "The  Waiting  Room." 
The  name  selected  by  Strindberg  for  the  region  where  dwell 
the  "lost"  souls  of  men  is  not  a  mere  euphemism.  It  sig- 
nifies his  conception  of  that  place  as  a  station  on  the  road  to 
redemption  or  annihilation. 

In  its  entirety  the  play  forms  a  Christmas  sermon  with  a 
quaint  blending  of  law  and  gospel.  A  prominent  Swedish 
critic,  Johan  Mortensen,  wrote:  "Reading  it,  one  almost 
gets  the  feeling  that  Strindberg,  the  dread  revolutionist,  has, 
of  a  sudden,  changed  into  a  nice  village  school-teacher,  seated 
at  his  desk,  with  his  rattan  cane  laid  out  in  front  of  him. 
He  has  just  been  delivering  a  lesson  in  Christianity,  and  he 
has  noticed  that  the  attention  of  the  children  strayed  and 
that  they  either  failed  to  understand  or  did  not  care  to  take 
in  the  difficult  matters  he  was  dealing  with.  But  they  must 
be  made  to  listen  and  understand.  And  so — with  serious 
eyes,  but  with  a  sly  smile  playing  around  the  corners  of  his 
mouth — he  begins  all  over  again,  in  that  fairy-tale  style  which 
never  grows  old:   'Once  upon  a  time!'" 

In  November,  1907,  a  young  theatrical  manager,  August 
Falck,  opened  the  Intimate  Theatre  at  Stockholm.  From 
the  start  Strindberg  was  closely  connected  with  the  venture, 
and  soon  the  little  theatre,  with  its  tiny  stage  and  its  audito- 
rium seating  only  one  hundred  and  seventy-five  persons,  was 
turned  wholly  into  a  Strindberg  stage,  where  some  of  the 
most  interesting  and  daring  theatrical  experiments  of  our 
own  day  were  made.  With  particular  reference  to  the  needs 
and  limitations  of  this  theatre,  Strindberg  wrote  a  series  of 
"chamber  plays,"  four  of  which  were  published  in  1907 — 
each  one  of  them  appearing  separately  in  a  paper-covered 
duodecimo  volume. 


8  [NTRODUC T ION 

The  first  of  these  plays  t<>  appear  in  hook  form — though 
not  the  first  one  to  be  staged — was  "The  Thunder-Storm," 
designated  on  the  front  cover  as  "Opus  I."  Two  of  the  prin- 
cipal  ideas  underlying  its  construction  were  the  abolition 
of  intermissions — which,  according  to  Strindberg,  were  put 
in  chiefly  for  the  benefit  of  the  liquor  traffic  in  the  theatre 
cafe — and  the  reduction  of  the  stage-setting  to  quickly  inter- 
changeable backgrounds  and  a  few  stage-properties.  Con- 
cerning the  production  of  "The  Thunder-Storm,"  at  the  Inti- 
mate Theatre,  Strindberg  wrote  subsequently  that,  in  their 
decorative  effects,  the  first  and  last  scenes  were  rather  failures. 
But  he  held  the  lack  of  space  wholly  responsible  for  this 
failure.  His  conclusion  was  that  the  most  difficult  problem 
of  the  small  theatre  would  be  to  give  the  illusion  of  distance 
required  by  a  scene  laid  in  the  open — particularly  in  an  open 
place  surrounded  or  adjoined  by  buildings.  Of  the  second 
act  he  wrote,  on  the  other  hand,  that  it  proved  a  triumph  of 
artistic  simplification.  The  only  furniture  appearing  on 
the  stage  consisted  of  a  buffet,  a  piano,  a  dinner-table  and  a 
few  chairs — that  is,  the  pieces  expressly  mentioned  in  the 
text  of  the  play.  And  yet  the  effect  of  the  setting  satisfied 
equally  the  demands  of  the  eye  and  the  reason. 

"The  Thunder-Storm"  might  be  called  a  drama  of  old 
age — nay,  the  drama  of  man's  inevitable  descent  through  a 
series  of  resignations  to  the  final  dissolution.  Its  subject- 
matter  is  largely  autobiographical,  embodying  the  author's 
experiences  in  his  third  and  last  marriage,  as  seen  in  retro- 
spect— the  anticipatory  conception  appearing  in  "Swan- 
white."  However,  justice  to  Miss  Harriet  Bosse,  who  was 
Mrs.  Strindberg  from  1901  to  1904,  requires  me  to  point  out; 
that  echoes  of  the  dramatist's  second  marriage  also  appear,1 
especially  in   the  references  to  the  postmarital  relationship. 

"After  the  Fire"  was  published  as  "Opus  II"  of  the  cham 


INTRODUCTION  0 

ber-plays,  and  staged  ahead  of  "The  Thunder-Storm."  lis 
Swedish  name  is  Branda  Tomtcn,  meaning  literally  "the 
humed-over  site."  This  name  has  previously  been  rendered 
in  English  as  "The  Burned  Lot"  and  "The  Fire  Ruins." 
Both  these  titles  are  awkward  and  ambiguous.  The  name  I 
have  now  chosen  embodies  more  closely  the  fundamental 
premise  of  the  play. 

The  subject-matter  is  even  more  autobiographical  than 
that  of  "The  Thunder-Storm" — almost  as  much  so  as  "The 
Bondwoman's  Son."  The  perished  home  is  Strindberg's  own 
at  the  North  Tollgate  Street  in  Stockholm,  where  he  spent 
the  larger  part  of  his  childhood  and  youth.  The  old  Mason, 
the  Gardener,  the  Stone-Cutter,  and  other  figures  appearing 
in  the  play  are  undoubtedly  lifted  straight  out  of  real  life — 
and  so  are  probably  also  the  exploded  family  reputation 
and  the  cheap  table  painted  to  represent  ebony— although 
one  may  take  for  granted  that  the  process  has  not  taken  place 
without  a  proper  disguising  of  externals. 

There  is  one  passage  in  this  little  play  which  I  want  to 
point  out  as  containing  one  of  the  main  keys  to  Strindberg's 
character  and  art.  It  is  the  passage  where  The  Stranger — 
who,  of  course,  is  none  but  the  author  himself — says  to  his 
brother:  "I  have  beheld  life  from  every  quarter,  from  every 
standpoint,  from  above  and  from  below,  but  always  it  has 
seemed  to  me  like  a  scene  staged  for  my  particular  benefit." 


SWAN WHITE 

(SVANEHVIT) 

A    FAIRY    PLAY 
1902 


CHARACTERS 

The   Duke 

The  Stepmother 

Swanwhite 

The  Prince 

Signe  \ 

Elsa     /  Maids 

Tova    ) 

The  Kitchen  Gardener 

The  Fisherman 

The  Mother  of  Swanwhite 

The  Mother  of  the  Prince 

The  Gaoler 

The  Equerry 

The  Butler 

The  F lower  Gardener 

Two  Knights 


SWANWHITE 

An  apartment  in  a  mediaeval  stone  castle.  The  walls  and  the 
cross-vaulted  ceiling  arc  whitewashed.  In  the  centre  of  the 
rear  icall  is  a  triple -arched  dooricay  leading  to  a  balcony 
with  a  stone  balustrade.  There  are  draperies  of  brocade 
over  the  doorway.  Beyond  the  balcony  appear  the  top 
branches  of  a  rose-garden,  laden  with  white  and  pink  roses. 
In  the  background  there  can  be  seen  a  rehite,  sandy  beach 
and  the  blue  sea. 

To  the  right  of  the  main  doorway  is  a  small  door  which,  when 
left  open,  discloses  a  vista  of  three  closets,  one  beyond  the 
other.  The  first  one  is  stored  with  vessels  of  pewter  arranged 
on  shelves.  The  trails  of  the  second  closet  are  hung  with 
all  sorts  of  costly  and  ornate  garments.  The  third  closet 
contains  piles  and  rows  of  apples,  pears,  melons,  pump- 
kins, and  so  forth. 

The  floors  of  all  the  rooms  are  inlaid  with  alternating  squares 
of  black  and  red.  At  the  centre  of  the  apartment  stands  a 
gilded  dinner-table  covered  with  a  cloth;  a  twig  of  mistletoe 
is  suspended  above  the  table.  A  clock  and  a  vase  filled 
vxith  roses  stand  on  the  table,  near  which  are  placed  two 
gilded  tabourets.  Two  swallows'  nests  are  visible  on  the 
rear  wall  above  the  doorway.  A  lion  skin  is  spread  on  the 
floor  near  the  foreground.  At  the  left,  well  to  the  front, 
stands  a  white  bed  with  a  rose-coloured  canopy  supported 
by  tiro  columns  at  the  head  of  the  bed  (and  by  none  at  the 
foot).     The  bed-clothing  is  pure  white  except  for  a  coverlet 

13 


14  SWANWHITE 

of  pale-blue  silk.  Across  the  bed  is  laid  a  night-dress  of 
finest  muslin  trimmed  with  lace.  Behind  the  bed  stands 
a  huge  wardrobe  containing  linen,  bathing  utensils,  and 
toilet  things.  A  small  gilded  table  in  Roman  style  (with 
round  top  supported  by  a  single  column)  is  placed  near  the 
bed;  also  a  lamp-stand  containing  a  Roman  lamp  of  gold. 
At  the  right  is  an  ornamental  chimney-piece.  On  the  man- 
tel stands  a  vase  with  a  white  lily  in  it. 

In  the  left  arch  of  the  doorway,  a  peacock  is  asleep  on  a  perch, 
witli  its  back  turned  toward  the  audience. 

In  the  right  arch  hangs  a  huge  gilded  cage  with  two  white  doves 
at  rest. 

As  the  curtain  rises,  the  three  maids  are  seen  in  the  doorways 
of  the  three  closets,  each  one  half  hidden  by  the  door-post 
against  which  she  leans.  Signe,  the  false  maid,  is  in  the 
pewter-closet,  Elsa  in  the  clotfies-closet,  and  Tova  in  the 
fruit-closet. 

The  Duke  enters  from  the  rear.  After  him  comes  the  Step- 
mother carrying  in  her  hand  a  wire-lashed  whip. 

The  stage  is  darkened  when  they  enter. 

Stepmother.  Swanwhite  is  not  here? 
Duke.  It  seems  so! 

Stepmother.  So  it  seems,  but — is  it  seemly?     Maids! — 
Signe! — Signe,  Elsa,  Tova! 

The  maids  enter,  one  after  the  other,  and  stand  in  front 
of  the  Stepmother. 
Stepmother.  Where  is  Lady  Swanwhite? 

Signe  folds  her  arms  across  her  breast  and  makes  no 
reply. 
Stepmother.  You  do  not  know?     What  see  you  in  my 
hand? — Answer,  quick!    [Pause]    Quick!     Do  you    hear   the 


SWANWHITE  15 

whistling  of  the  falcon?     It  has  claws  of  steel,  as  well   as 
bill!     What  is  it? 

Signe.  The  wire-lashed  whip! 

Stepmother.  The  wire-lashed  whip,  indeed!  And  now, 
where  is  Lady  Swan  white? 

Signe.  How  can  I  tell  what  I  don't  know? 

Stepmother.  It  is  a  failing  to  be  ignorant,  but  carelessness 
is  an  offence.  Were  you  not  placed  as  guardian  of  your 
young  mistress? — Take  off  your  neckerchief! — Down  on 
your  knees! 

The  Duke  turns  his  back  on  her  in  disgust. 

Stepmother.  Hold  out  your  neck!  And  I'll  put  such  a 
necklace  on  it  that  no  youth  will  ever  kiss  it  after  this! — Hold 
out  your  neck! — Still  more! 

Signe.  For  Christ's  sake,  mercy! 

Stepmother.  'Tis  mercy  that  you  are  alive! 

Duke.  [Pulls  out  his  sword  and  tries  the  edge  of  it,  first 
on  one  of  his  finger-nails,  and  then  on  a  hair  out  of  his  long 
beard]  Her  head  should  be  cut  off — put  in  a  sack — hung  on 
a  tree 

Stepmother.  So  it  should ! 

Duke.  We  are  agreed!     How  strange! 

Stepmother.  It  did  not  happen  yesterday. 

Duke.  And  may  not  happen  once  again. 

Stepmother.  [To  Signe,  who,  still  on  her  knees,  has  been 
moving  farther  atvay]  Stop!  Whither?  [She  raises  the  whip 
and  strikes;  Signe  turns  aside  so  that  the  lash  merely  cuts  the 
air.] 

Swanwhite.  [Comes  fonvard  from  behind  the  bed  arid  falls 
on  her  knees]  Stepmother — here  I  am — the  guilty  one !  She's 
not  at  fault. 

Stepmother.  Say  "mother"!  You  must  call  me  "moth- 
er' 


■"? 


16  SWANWHITE 

Swaxwhite.  I  cannot!  One  mother  is  as  much  as  any 
human  being  ever  had. 

Stepmother.  Your  father's  wife  must  be  your  mother. 

Swaxwhite.  My  father's  second  wife  can  only  be  my 
stepmother. 

Stepmother.  You  are  a  stiffnecked  daughter,  but  my 
w  hip  is  pliant  and  will  make  you  pliant  too. 

[She  raises  the  whip  to  strike  Swaxwhite. 

Duke.  [Raising  his  sioord]  Take  heed  of  the  head! 

Stepmother.  Whose  head? 

Duke.  Your  own! 

The  Stepmother  tvrns  pale  at  first,  and  then  angry; 
but  she  controls  herself  and  remains  silent;  long  pause. 

Stepmother.  [Beaten  for  the  moment,  she  changes  her  tone] 
Then  will  Your  Grace  inform  your  daughter  what  is  now  in 
store  for  her? 

Duke.  [Sheathing  his  sword]  Rise  up,  my  darling  child, 
and  come  into  my  arms  to  calm  yourself. 

Swaxwhite.  [Throwing  herself  into  the  arms  of  the  Duke] 
Father! — You're  like  a  royal  oak-tree  which  my  arms  cannot 
encircle.  But  beneath  your  leafage  there  is  refuge  from  all 
threatening  showers.  [She  hides  her  head  beneath  his  immense 
beard,  which  reaches  down  to  his  waist]  And  like  a  bird,  I  will 
be  swinging  on  your  branches — lift  me  up,  so  I  can  reach  the 
top. 

The  Duke  holds  out  his  arm. 

Swaxwhite.  [Climbs  up  on  his  arm  and  perches  herself  on 
his  shoulder]  Now  lies  the  earth  beneath  me  and  the  air 
above — now  I  can  overlook  the  rosery,  the  snowy  beach,  the 
deep-blue  sea,  and  all  the  seven  kingdoms  stretched  beyond. 

Duke.  Then  you  can  also  see  the  youthful  king  to  whom 
yuur  troth  is  promised 


S  WAN  WH  ITE  17 

Swanwhite.  No — nor  have  I  ever  seen  him.     Is  he  hand 
some? 

Duke.  Dear  heart,  it  will  depend  on  your  own  eyes  how 
he  appears  to  you. 

Swanwhite.  [Rubbing  her  eyes]  My  eyes? — They  cannot 
see  what  is  not  beautiful. 

Duke.  [Kissing  her  foot]  Poor  little  foot,  that  is  so  black! 
Poor  little  blackamoorish  foot! 

The  Stepmother  gives  a  sign  to  the  maids,  who  resume 
their  previous  positions  in  the  closet  doors;  she  herself 
steals  with  panther-like  movements  out  through  the 
middle  arch  of  the  doorway. 

Swanwhite.  [Leaps  to  the  floor;  the  Duke  places  her  on 
the  table  and  sits  down  on  a  chair  beside  it;  Swanwhite  looks 
meaningly  after  the  Stepmother]  Was  it  the  dawn?  Or  did 
the  wind  turn  southerly?     Or  has  the  Spring  arrived? 

Duke.  [Puts  his  hand  over  her  mouth]  You  little  chatter- 
box! You  joy  of  my  old  age — my  evening  star!  Now  open 
wide  your  rosy  eaF,  and  close  your  little  mouth's  crimson 
shell.     Give  heed,  obey,  and  all  will  then  be  well  with  you. 

Swanwhite.  [Putting  her  fingers  in  her  ears]  With  my  eyes 
I  hear,  ami  with  my  ears  I  see — and  now  I  cannot  see  at  all, 
but  only  hear. 

Duke.  My  child,  when  still  a  cradled  babe,  your  troth  was 
plighted  to  the  youthful  King  of  Rigalid.  You  have  not 
seen  him  yet,  such  being  courtly  usage.  But  the  time  to  tie 
the  sacred  knot  is  drawing  near.  To  teach  you  the  deport- 
ment of  a  queen  and  courtly  manners,  the  king  has  sent  a 
prince  with  whom  you  are  to  study  reading  out  of  books, 
gaming  at  chess,  treading  the  dance,  and  playing  on  the 
harp. 

Swanwhite.  What  is  the  prince's  name? 

Duke.  That,  child,  is  something  you  must  never  ask  of 


is  SWAN  WHITE 

him  or  anybody  else.     Fur  it  is  prophesied  that  whosoever 
calls  him  by  his  name  shall  have  to  love  him. 

Su anuhitk.  Is  he  handsome? 

1  )i  Kt .  Se  is,  because  your  eye  sees  beauty  everywhere. 

S  WAN  WHIT  JS.   But  is  he  beautiful? 

Di  kk.  Indeed  be  is.  And  now  be  careful  of  your  little 
heart,  and  don't  forget  that  in  the  cradle  you  were  made  a 
queen.  -With  this,  dear  child,  I  have  you,  for  I  have  war 
to  wage  abroad.  Submit  obediently  to  your  stepmother. 
She's  hard,  but  once  your  father  loved  her — and  a  sweet 
temper  will  find  a  way  to  hearts  of  stone.  If,  despite  of 
promises  and  oaths,  her  malice  should  exceed  what  is  permis- 
.siltle,  then  you  may  blow  this  horn  [he  takes  a  horn  of  carved 
,  from  under  his  cloak],  and  help  will  come.  But  do  not 
use  it  till  you  are  in  danger — not  until  the  danger  is  ex- 
treme.— Have  you   understood? 

Swanuhitk.  How  is  it  to  be  understood? 

I  >i  kk.  This  way:  the  prince  is  here,  is  in  the  court  already. 
Is  it  your  wish  to  see  the  prince? 

Swan  white.  Is  it  my  wish? 

Di  kk.  Or  shall  I  first  bid  you  farewell? 

Sw  an wiui  k.   The  prince  is  here  already? 

Di  kk.  Already  here,  and  I — already  there — far,  far  away 
where  >le<ps  the  heron  of  forgetfulness,  with  head  beneath  his 
wing. 

Su  \\  white.  [Leaping  into  the  lap  of  the  Duke  and  bury- 
ing lor  head  in  his  beard]  Mustn't  speak  like  that!     Baby 
bamed! 

l)i  kk.  Baby  should  be  spanked— who  forgets  her  aged 
father  fur  a  little  prinee.      Fie  on  her! 

.1  tram  jut  is  heard  in  the  distance. 

Dun.  [Riga  quickly,  takes  Swanwhite  in  his  arms, 
thruwa  her  up  into  tfie  air  and  catches  her  again]  Fly,  little 


SWANWHITE  19 

bird,  fly  high  above  the  dust,  with  lots  of  air  beneath  your 
wings! — And  then,  once  more  on  solid  ground! — I  am  called 
by  war  and  glory — you,  by  love  and  youth!  [Girding  on  hit 
sword]  And  now  hide  your  wonder-horn,  that  it  may  not  be 
seen  by  evil  eyes. 

Swanwhite.  Where  shall  I  hide  it?     Where? 

Duke.  The  bed! 

Swanwhite.  [Hiding  the  horn  in  the  bed-clothing]  There! 
Sleep  well,  my  little  tooteroot!  When  it  is  time,  I'll  wake 
you  up.     And  don't  forget  your  prayers! 

Duke.  And  child!  Do  not  forget  what  I  said  last:  your 
stepmother  must  be  obeyed. 

Swanwhite.  In  all? 

Duke.  In  all. 

Swanwhite.  But  not  in  what  is  contrary  to  cleanliness! 
— Two  linen  shifts  my  mother  let  me  have  each  sennight; 
this  woman  gives  but  one!  And  mother  gave  me  soap  and 
water,  which  stepmother  denies.     Look  at  my  little  footies! 

Duke.  Keep  clean  within,  my  daughter,  and  clean  will 
be  the  outside.  You  know  that  holy  men,  who,  for  the  sake 
of  penance,  deny  themselves  the  purging  waters,  grow  white 
as  swans,  while  evil  ones  turn  raven-black. 

Swanwhite.  Then  I  will  be  as  white ! 

Duke.  Into  my  arms!     And  then,  farewell! 

Swanwhite.  [Throwing  herself  into  his  arms]  Farewell, 
my  great  and  valiant  hero,  my  glorious  father!  May  for- 
tune follow  you,  and  make  you  rich  in  years  and  friends  and 
victories ! 

Duke.  Amen — and  let  your  gentle  prayers  be  my  protec- 
tion! [He  closes  the  visor  of  his  golden  helmet. 

Swanwhite.  [Jumps  up  and  plants  a  kiss  on  the  visor]  The 
golden  gates  are  shut,  but  through  the  bars  I  still  can  see 
your  kindly,  watchful  eyes.  [Knocking  at  the  visor]  Let  up, 


SWA  N  WHITE 

l.t  up,  for  little  Red  Riding-hood.     Nooneathome?     "Well- 
away,"  said  the  u<»lf  that  lay  in  the  bed! 

I  >i  kk.  [Putting  her  down  on  the  floor]  Sweet  flower  of  mine, 

grow    fair  and  fragrant!    If  I  return— well— I  return!    If 

not,   then  from  the  starry  arch  above  my  eye  shall  follow 

you,  and  never  t<>  my  sight  will  you  be  lost,  for  there  above 

all-seeing  we  become,  even  as  the  all-ereating  Lord  himself. 

Goes  out  firmly,  with  a  gesture  that  bids  her  not  to  follow. 

Sw  ww  hi  i  k/W/.v  on  her  knees  in  prayer  for  the  Duke; 

all  tin  rose-trees  sway  before  a  wind  that  passes  with  the 

sound  qf  a  sigh;  the  peacock  shakes  Us  wings  and  tail. 

Sw  ww  in  n:.  [Rises,  goes  to  the  peacock  and  begins  to  stroke 

its  hack  and  tail]  Pavo,  dear  Pavo,  what  do  you  see  and  what 

do  you   hear?     Is  any  one   coming?     Who    is    it?     A    little 

prince?     Is  be  pretty  and  nice?     You,  with  your  many  blue 

should  be  able  to  tell.  [She  lifts  up  one  of  the  bird's  tail 

feathers  and  gazes  intently  at  its  ^eye""]  Are  you  to  keep  your 

•  >ii  us,  you  nasty  Argus?     Are  you  to  see  that  the  little 

hearts  of  two  young   people  don't  beat  too  loudly? — You 

stupid  thing — all  I  have  to  do  is  to  close  the  curtain!  [She 

closes  the  curtain,  which  hides  the  bird,  but  not  the  landscape 

outside;  then  she  goes  to  the  doves]  My  white  doves — oh,  so 

white,  white,  white— now  you'll  see  what  is  whitest  of  all — 

Be  silent,  wind,  and  roses,  and  doves — my  prince  is  coming! 

She  looks  Out  for  a   moment;  then  she  withdraws  to  the 

petoter-closet,   baling  the   door   slightly   ajar   so   that 

through  the  opening  she  can  watch  the  Prince;   there 

she  remains  standing,  risible  to  the  spectators  but  not 

to  the  I'kim  b. 

Pbdn  B.  [Enters  through   the   middle  arch  of  the  doorway. 

//•      ears  armour  of  steel;  whut  shows  of  his  clothing  is  black. 

Ilnvmg  carefully  observed  everything  in  the  room,  he  sits  down 

at  the  table,  takes  off  his  helmet  and  begins  to  study  it.     His 


SWAN  WHITE  Ji 

back  is  turned  toward  the  door  behind  ivhich  Swanwhite  is 
hiding]  If  anybody  be  here,  let  him  answer!  [Silence]  There 
is  somebody  here,  for  I  can  feel  the  warmth  of  a  young  body 
come   billowing   toward   me   like   a   southern   wind.     I   can 
hear  a  breath — it  carries  the  fragrance  of  roses — and,  gentle 
though  it  be,  it  makes  the  plume  on  my  helmet  move.   [He 
puts  the  helmet  to  his  ear]  'Tis  murmuring  as  if  it  were  a  huge 
shell.     It's  the  thoughts  within  my  own  head  that  are  crowd- 
ing each  other  like  a  swarm  of  bees  in  a  hive.     "Zum,  zum," 
say  the  thoughts— just  like  bees  that  are  buzzing  around 
their  queen — the  little  queen  of  my  thoughts  and  of  my 
dreams!  [He  places  the  helmet  on  the  table  and  gazes  at  it] 
Dark  and  arched  as  the  sky  at  night,  but  starless,  for  the 
black   plume   is   spreading   darkness   everywhere   since   my 
mother's  death —  [He  turns  the  helmet  around  and  gazes  at 
it  again]  But  there,  in  the  midst  of  the  darkness,  deep  down 
—there,  on  the  other  side,  I  see  a  rift  of  light!— Has  the  sky 
been  split  open?— And  there,  in  the  rift,  I  see — not  a  star, 
for  it  would  look  like  a  diamond — but  a  blue  sapphire,  queen 
of  the  precious  stones— blue  as  the  sky  of  summer — set  in  a 
cloud  white  as  milk  and  curved  as  the  dove's  egg.     What  is 
it?     My  ring?     And  now  another  feathery  cloud,  black  as 
velvet,  passes  by — and  the  sapphire  is  smiling— as  if  sap- 
phires could  smile!     And  there,  the  lightning  flashed,  but 
blue— heat-lightning   mild,  that  brings  no  thunder!— What 
are  you?     Who?     And  where?  [He  looks  at  the  back  of  the 
helmet]  Not  here!     Not  there!     And  nowhere  else!  [He  puts 
his  face  close  to  the  helmet]  As  I  come  nearer,  you  withdraw. 
Swanwhite  steals  forward  on  tiptoe. 
Prince.  And   now   there   are   two — two   eyes — two   little 
human  eyes— I  kiss  you !  [He  kisses  the  helmet. 

Swanwhite  goes  up  to  the  table  and  seats  herself  slowly 
opposite  the  Prince. 


SWANWHITE 

The  Prince  rises,  boivs,  with  his  hand  to  his  heart,  and 
gazes  steadily  at  Swanwhite. 
Swanwhite.  Are  you  the  little  prince? 
Pri.vi:.  The  faithful  servant  of  the  king,  and  yours! 
Sn  \n  white.  What  Tnessage  does  the  young  king  send  his 

bride? 

Prince,  This  is  his  word  to  Lady  Swanwhite— whom  lov- 
ingly he  greets— that  by  the  thought  of  coming  happiness 
the  long  torment  of  waiting  will  be  shortened. 

Su  \n  white.  [Who  has  been  looking  at  the  Prince  as  if  to 
.stud)/  him]  Why  not  be  seated,  Prince? 

PBINCE.  If  seated  when  you  sit,  then  I  should  have  to 
kneel  when  you  stand  up. 

Swanwhite.    Speak  to  me  of  the  king!    How  does  he 

look? 

Prince.  How  does  he  look?  [Putting  one  of  his  hands  up 
to  his  eyes]  I  can  no  longer  see  him— how  strange! 

Su  w  white.  What  is  his  name? 

Prince.  He's  gone — invisible ■ 

Su  \\u  hue.  And  is  he  tall? 

Prince.  [Fixing  his  glance  on  Swanwhite]  Wait! — I  see 
him  now!  -Taller  than  you! 

Swanwhite.  And  beautiful? 

Prince.  Not  in  comparison  with  you! 

Su  a\\\  hue.  Speak  of  the  king,  and  not  of  me! 

Prince.  I  rlo  speak  of  the  king! 

Su  in  WRITE.  Is  his  complexion  light  or  dark? 

PRINCE.  If  he  were  dark,  on  seeing  you  he  would  turn 
light  at  one-. 

Swanwhite.  There's  more  of  flattery  than  wit  in  that! 
Bis  i    es  are  blue? 

I'hinc  b.  [Glancing  at  his  helmet]  I  think  I  have  to  look? 


SWANWHITE'  23 

Swan  white.  [Holding  out  her  hand  between  them]  Oh,  you 
—you! 

Prince.  You  with  t  k  makes  youth! 

Swanwhite.  Are  you  to  teach  me  how  to  spell? 

Prince.  The  young  king  is  tall  and  blond  and  blue-eyed, 
with  broad  shoulders  and  hair  like  a  new-grown  forest 

Swanwhite.  Why  do  you  carry  a  black  plume? 

Prince.  His  lips  are  red  as  the  ripe  currant,  his  cheeks  are 
white,  and  the  lion's  cub  needn't  be  ashamed  of  his  teeth. 

Swanwhite.  Why  is  your  hair  wet? 

Prince.  His  mind  knows  no  fear,  and  no  evil  deed  ever 
made  his  heart  quake  with  remorse. 

Swanwhite.  Why  is  your  hand  trembling? 

Prince.  We  were  to  speak  of  the  young  king  and  not 
of  me! 

Swanwhite.  So,  you,  you  are  to  teach  me? 

Prince.  It  is  my  task  to  teach  you  how  to  love  the  young 
king  whose  throne  you  are  to  share. 

Swanwhite.  How  did  you  cross  the  sea? 

Prince.  In  my  bark  and  with  my  sail. 

Swanwhite.  And  the  wind  so  high? 

Prince.  Without  wind  there  is  no  sailing. 

Swanwhite.  Little  boy — how  wise  you  are! — Will  you 
play  with  me? 

Prince.  What  I  must  do,  I  will. 

Swanwhite.  And  now  I'll  show  you  what  I  have  in  my 
chest.  [She  goes  to  the  chest  and  kneels  down  beside  it;  then  she 
takes  out  several  dolls,  a  rattle,  and  a  hobby-horse]  Here's  the 
doll.  It's  my  child — the  child  of  sorrow  that  can  never  keep 
its  face  clean.  In  my  own  arms  I  have  carried  her  to  the 
lavendrey,  and  there  I  have  washed  her  with  white  sand — 
but  it   only   made   her   worse.     I   have   spanked   her — but 


U  S  W  A  N  WHITE 

nothing  helped.      Mow  I  have  figured    out   what's   worst  of 

all! 

I'kiv  i..  And  what  is  that? 

SwANWHlTE.  [After  a  glance  around  the  room]  I'll  give  her 
a  stepmother! 

1'ki\<  k.   But  how's  that  to  be?     She  should  have  a  mother 

Bret 

Suw  white.  I  am  her  mother.     And  if  I  marry  twice,  I 

shall  become  a  stepmother. 

l*i<i\.  k.  (  Hi.  how  you  talk!     That's  not  the  way! 

SwANWHlTE.  And  you  shall  be  her  stepfather. 

1'hince.  Oh,  no! 

SwANWHTTB.  You  must  be  very  kind  to  her,  although  she 
cannol  wash  her  face.— Here,  take  her — let  me  see  if  you 
have  learned  to  carry  children  right. 

The  Prince  receives  the  doll  unwillingly. 

Swanwhite.   You  haven't  learned  yet,  but  you  will!    Now 
take  the  rattle  too,  and  play  with  her. 
The  Pbince  receives  the  rattle. 

Swam  WHITE.  That's  something  you  don't  understand,   I 

>(■<•.  [She  takes  the  doU  and  the  rattle  away  from  him  and  throws 

them  hark  intn  the  chest;  then  she  takes  out  the  hobby-horse] 

Here  u  my  steed. — It  has  saddle  of  gold  and  shoes  of  silver. 

—It  can  run  forty  miles  in  an  hour,  and  on  its  back  I  have 

travelled   through  Sounding  Forest,  across  Big  Heath  and 

King's  Bridge,  along  High  Road  and  Fearful  Alley,  all  the 

way  to  the  Lake  of  Tears.     And  there  it  dropped  a  golden 

thai  fell  into  the  lake,  and  then  came  a  fish,  and  after 

came  a  fisherman,  and  so  I  got  the  golden  shoe  back.     That's 

all  there  was  to  that !  [She  throws  the  hobby-horse  into  the  chest; 

■  id  .y//.  takes  nut  a  chess-board  with  red  and  white  squares, 

and  chessmen  made  of  silver  and  gold]  If  you  will  play  with 

me,  come  here  and  >it  upon  the  lion  skin.  [She  seats  herself 


S  W  A  N  W  II  I  T  E 

on  the  skin  and  begins  to  put  up  the  pieces]  Sit  down,  wont 
you — the  maids  can't  see  us  here! 

The  Prince  sits  down  on  the  shin,  looking  very  em- 
barrassed. 

SwANWHlTE.  It's  like  sitting  in  the  grass — not  the  green 
grass  of  the  meadow,  but  the  desert  grass  which  has  been 
burned  by  the  sun. — Now  you  must  say  something  about  me! 
Do  you  like  me  a  little? 

Prince.  Are  we  to  play? 

Swanwhite.  To  play?  What  care  I  for  that? — Oh — 
you  were  to  teach  me  something! 

Prince.  Poor  me,  what  can  I  do  but  saddle  a  horse  and 
carry  arms — with  which  you  are  but  poorly  served. 

Swanwhite.  You  are  so  sad! 

Prince.  My  mother  died  quite  recently. 

Swanwhite.  Poor  little  prince! — -My  mother,  too,  has 
gone  to  God  in  heaven,  and  she's  an  angel  now.  Sometimes 
in  the  nights  I  see  her — do  you  also  see  yours? 

Prince.  No-o. 

Swanwhite.  And  have  you  got  a  stepmother? 

Prince.  Not  yet.  So  little  time  has  passed  since  she  was 
laid  to  rest. 

Swanwhite.  Don't  be  so  sad!  There's  nothing  but  will 
wear  away  in  time,  you  see.  Now  I'll  give  you  a  flag  to 
gladden  you  again —  Oh,  no,  that's  right — this  one  I  sewed 
for  the  young  king.  But  now  I'll  sew  another  one  for  you! 
— This  is  the  king's,  with  seven  flaming  fires — jTou  shall  have 
one  with  seven  red  roses  on  it — but  first  of  all  you  have  to 
hold  this  skein  of  yarn  for  me.  [She  takes  from  the  chest  a 
skein  of  rose-coloured  yarn  and  hands  it  to  the  Prince]  One, 
two,  three,  and  now  you'll  see! — Your  hands  are  trembling 
— that  won't  do! — Perhaps  you  want  a  hair  of  mine  among 
the  yarn? — Pull  one  yourself! 


SWAN WHITE 


Prince.  Oh,  no,  I  couldn't- 


Sw  anwhite.  I'll  do  it,  then,  myself.  [She  pulls  a  hair  from 
fur  head  and  winds  it  into  the  ball  of  yarn]  What  is  your  name? 
Piuvi:.   Vou  shouldn't  ask. 
Swanwhite.  Why  not? 
Prince.  The  duke  has  told  you — hasn't  he? 
Swanwhite.  No,  he  hasn't!     What  could  happen  if  you 
told  your  name?     Might  something  dreadful  happen? 
Pamcs.    The  duke  has  told  you,  I  am  sure. 
Su  anwhite.  I  never  heard  of  such  a  thing  before — of  one 
who  couldn't  tell  his  name! 

The  curtain  behind  which  the  peacock  is  hidden  moves; 
a  faint  sound  as  of  castanets  is  heard. 
Prince.  What  was  that? 

Swanwhite.  That's  Pavo — do  you  think  he  knows  what 
we  ;irc  Baying? 

Phi  me.  It's  hard  to  tell. 
Swanwhite.  Well,  what's  your  name? 

Again  tlie  peacock  makes  the  same  land  of  sound  with 

his  bill. 

Prince.  I  am  afraid — don't  ask  again! 

Swanwhite.    He  snaps  his  bill,  that's  all —    Keep  your 

bands  still! — Did  you  ever  hear  the  tale  of  the  little  princess 

that  mustn't  mention  the  name  of  the  prince,  lest  something 

happen?     And  do  you  know ? 

Tin-  curtain  hiding  the  peacock  is  pulled  aside,  and  the 

turd  is  seen  spreading  oid  his  tail  so  tlwi  it  looks  as 

if  all  the  "eyes"  were  staring  at  Swanwhite  and  the 

Prince. 

Prince.  Who  pulled  away  the  curtain?     Who  made  the 

bird  behold  us  with  its  hundred  eyes? — You  mustn't  ask 

in! 


SWANWHITE  27 

Swanwhite.  Perhaps  I  mustn't —   Down,  Pavo — there! 

The  curtain  resumes  its  previous  position. 
Prince.  Is  this  place  haunted? 

Swanwhite.  You  mean  that  things  will  happen — just  like 
that?  Oh,  well,  so  much  is  happening  here — but  I  have 
grown  accustomed  to  it.  And  then,  besides — they  call  my 
stepmother  a  witch —   There,  now,  I  have  pricked  my  finger! 

Prince.  What  did  you  prick  it  with? 

Swanwhite.  There  was  a  splinter  in  the  yarn.  The  sheep 
have  been  locked  up  all  winter — and  then  such  things  will 
happen.     Please  see  if  you  can  get.  it  out. 

Prince.  We  must  sit  at  the  table  then,  so  I  can  see. 

[They  rise  and  take  seats  at  the  table. 

Swanwhite.  [Holding  out  one  of  her  little  fingers]  Can  you 
see  anything? 

Prince.  What  do  I  see?  Your  hand  is  red  within,  and 
through  it  all  the  world  and  life  itself  appear  in  rosy  col- 
ouring  

Swanwhite.  Now  pull  the  splinter  out — ooh,  it  hurts! 

Prince.  But  I  shall  have  to  hurt  you,  too — and  ask  your 
pardon  in  advance! 

Swanwhite.  Oh,  help  me,  please! 

Prince.  [Squeezing  her  little  finger  and  pulling  out  the 
splinter  with  his  nails]  There  is  the  cruel  little  thing  that 
dared  to  do  you  harm. 

Swanwhite.  Now  you  must  suck  the  blood  to  keep  the 
wound  from  festering. 

Prince.  [Sucking  the  blood  from  her  finger]  I've  drunk  your 
blood — and  so  I  am  your  foster-brother  now. 

Swanwhite.  My  foster-brother — so  you  were  at  once — 
or  how  do  you  think  I  could  have  talked  to  you  as  I  have 
done? 


S  \\  A  N  WHITE 

PRINCE.  If  you  have  talked  to  me  like  that,  how  did  I  talk 

t.p  you? 

Sw  w\\  iiitk.  Just  think,  he  didn't  notice  it!— And  now  I 
have  gol  a  brother  of  my  own,  and  that  is  you! — My  little 
brother     take  my  hand! 

PRINCE.  [Talcing  her  hand]  My  little  sister!  [Feels  her 
pulse  heating  under  his  thumb]  What  have  you  there,  that's 

ticking     one,  and  two,  and  three,  and  four ? 

Continues  to  count  silently  after  having  looked  at  his 
watch. 

Su  an  white.  Yes,  tell  me  what  it  is  that  ticks — so  steady, 
steady,  steady?  It  cannot  be  my  heart,  for  that  is  here, 
beneath  my  breast  -  Put  your  hand  here,  and  you  can  feel 
it  too.  [The  doves  begin  to  stir  and  coo]  What  is  it,  little  white 
ones? 

PRINCE.  And  sixty!  Now  I  know  what  makes  that  tick- 
ing— it  is  the  time!  Your  little  finger  is  the  second-hand 
that's  licking  sixty  times  for  every  minute  that  goes  by. 
And  don't  you  think  there  is  a  heart  within  the  watch? 

Swanwhite.  [Handling  the  watch]  We  cannot  reach  the 
inside  of  the  watch — no  more  than  of  the  heart —  Just  feel 
my  luart! 

SlGNE.  [Enters  from  the  pewter-closet  carrying  a  whip,  which 
the  puts  down  on  the  table]  Her  Grace  commands  that  the 
children  he  seated  at  opposite  sides  of  the  table. 

The  Prince  sits  down  at  the  opposite  end  of  the  table. 
Ilr  an -i 7  Sw  w  white  look  at  each  other  in  silence  for 

(I    nil  lie. 

Sw  \\  white.  Now  wc  are  far  apart,  and  yet  a  little  nearer 
t  ban  before. 

1'kiv  i..  It's  when  we  part  that  we  come  nearest  to  each 
other. 

>w  INWH3TE.   And  you  know  that? 


S  W  A  N  W  II  I  T  E  29 

Prince.  I  have  just  learned  it! 

Swanwhite.  Now  my  instruction  has  begun. 

Prince.  You're  teaching  me! 

Swanwhite.  [Pointing  to  a  dish  of  fruit]  Would  you  like 
some  fruit? 

Prince.  No,  eating  is  so  ugly. 

Swanwhite.  Yes,  so  it  is. 

Prince.  Three  maids  are  standing  there — one  in  the 
pewter-closet,  one  among  the  clothes,  and  one  among  the 
fruits.     Why  are  they  standing  there? 

Swanwhite.  To  watch  us  two — lest  we  do  anything  that 
is  forbidden. 

Prince.  May  we  not  go  into  the  rosery? 

Swanwhite.  The  morning  is  the  only  time  when  I  can 
go  into  the  rosery,  for  there  the  bloodhounds  of  my  step- 
mother are  kept.  They  never  let  me  reach  the  shore — and 
so  I  get  no  chance  to  bathe. 

Prince.  Have  you  then  never  seen  the  shore?  And  never 
heard  the  ocean  wash  the  sand  along  the  beach? 

Swanwhite.  No — never!  Here  I  can  only  hear  the  roar- 
ing waves  in  time  of  storm. 

Prince.  Then  you  have  never  heard  the  murmur  made 
by  winds  that  sweep  across  the  waters  ? 

Swanwhite.  It  cannot  reach  me  here. 

Prince.  [Pushing  his  helmet  across  the  table  to  Swanwhite] 
Put  it  to  your  ear  and  listen. 

Swanwhite.  [With  the  helmet  at  her  ear]  What  is  that  I 
hear? 

Prince.  The  song  of  waves,  the  whispering  winds 

Swanwhite.  No,  I  hear  human  voices — hush!  My  step- 
mother is  speaking — speaking  to  the  steward — and  men- 
tioning my  name— and  that  of  the  young  king,  too!  She's 
speaking  evil  words.     She's  swearing  that  I  never  shall  be 


S  W  A  \  W  H  I  T  E 

queen— and  vowing  that— you — shall  take  that  daughter  of 
her  own — that  loathsome  Lena 

1'iiiN.  b.  Endeed!     And  you  can  hear  it  in  the  helmet? 

Su  \nu  bite.  I  can. 

Prin<  E.   I  didn't  know  of  that.     But  my  godmother  gave 
me  the  helmet  as  a  christening  present. 

Su  an u  hi  re.  Give  me  a  feather,  will  you? 

Phince.  It  is  a  pleasure — great  as  life  itself. 

Swan  white.  But  you  must  cut  it  so  that  it  will  write. 

Prince.  You  know  a  thing  or  two! 

SWAM  WHITE.  .My  father  taught  me 

The  Prince  pulls  a  black  feather  out  of  the  plume  on 
his  h<  I  met;  then  he  takes  a  silver-handled  knife  from, 
his  belt  and  cuts  the  quill. 
Swam  WHITE  takes  out  an  ink-well  and  parchment  from 
a  drawer  in  the  table. 

Prince.  Who  is  Lady  Lena? 

Swan  WHITE.  You  mean,  what  kind  of  person?     You  want 
her,  do  you? 

PRINCE.  Some  evil  things  are  brewing  in  this  house 

Swan  white.  Fear  not!     My  father  has  bestowed  a  gift 
on  hi*-  that  will  bring  help  in  hours  of  need. 

Prince.  What  is  it  called? 

Swan  white.  It  is  the  horn  Stand-By. 

Prince.  Where  is  it  hid? 

Su  \.\ white.  Read  in  my  eye.     I  dare  not  let  the  maids 
discover  it. 

I'i;i\<  e.  [(lazing  at  her  eyes]  I  see! 

SuwuinTK.  [Pushing  pen,  ink  and  parchment  across  the 
tubb  to  the  Prince]  Write  it. 
Th  Prince  u  rites. 

Swanwrtts.  Yes,  that's  the  place.  [She  icrites  again. 

I'hi\<  B.   What  do  you  write? 


SWANWHI  T  E  31 

Swanwhite.  Names — all  pretty  names  that  may  be  worn 
by  princes! 

Prince.  Except  my  own! 

Swanwhite.  Yours,  too! 

Prince.  Leave  that  alone! 

Swanwhite.  Here  I  have  written  twenty  names — all  that 
I  know — and  so  your  name  must  be  there,  too.   [Pushing 
the  parchment  across  the  table]  Read! 
The  Prince  reads. 

Swanwhite.  Oh,  I  have  read  it  in  your  eye! 

Prince.  Don't  utter  it!  I  beg  you  in  the  name  of  God 
the  merciful,  don't  utter  it! 

Swanwhite.  I  read  it  in  his  eye! 

Prince.  But  do  not  utter  it,  I  beg  of  you! 

Swanwhite.  And  if  I  do?  What  then? — Can  Lena  tell, 
you  think?     Your  bride!     Your  love! 

Prince.  Oh,  hush,  hush,  hush! 

Swanwhite.  [Jumps  up  and  begins  to  dance]  I  know  his 
name — the  prettiest  name  in  all  the  land! 

The  Prince  runs  up  to  her,  catches  hold  of  her  and 
covers  her  mouth  with  his  hand. 

Swanwhite.  I'll  bite  your  hand;  I'll  suck  your  blood; 
and  so  I'll  be  your  sister  twice — do  you  know  what  that  can 
mean? 

Prince.  I'll  have  two  sisters  then. 

Swanwhite.  [Throwing  back  her  head]  O-ho!  O-ho!  Be- 
hold, the  ceiling  has  a  hole,  and  I  can  see  the  sky — a  tiny 
piece  of  sky,  a  window-pane — and  there's  a  face  behind  it. 
Is  it  an  angel's? — See — but  see,  I  tell  you!— It's  your  face! 

Prince.  The  angels  are  not  boys,  but  girls. 

Swanwhite.  But  it  is  you. 

Prince.  [Looking  up]  'Tis  a  mirror. 


S  W  A  X  Will  T  E 

Swanwhtte.  Woe  In  us  then!  It  is  the  witching  mirror  of 
my  Btepmother,  and  she  has  seen  it  all. 

Prin<  e.  And  in  tli.-  mirror  I  can  see  the  fireplace — there's 
a  pumpkin  hanging  in  it! 

Swanwhtte.  [Takes  from  the  fireplace  a  mottled,  strangely 
shaped  pumpkin]  What  can  it  he?  It  has  the  look  of  an 
ear.  The  witch  has  heard  us,  too!— Alas,  alas!  [She  throws 
the  pumpkin  into  the  fireplace  and  runs  across  the  floor  toward 
the  bed;  suddenly  she  stops  on  one  foot,  holding  up  tlie  other] 

(Hi.  Bhe  ha-  strewn  the  floor  with  needles 

[She  sits  down  and  begins  to  ri/b  her  foot. 
Tin    Prince  kneels  in  front  of  Swanwhite  in  order  to 
help  her. 
Swanwhite.     No,    you     mustn't     touch    my    foot — you 

mustn't ! 

Prince.  Dear  heart,  you  must  take  off  your  stocking  if 
I  am  to  help. 

Swanwhite.     [Sobbing]    You    mustn't — mustn't    see    my 

foot! 

Prince.  But  why?     Why  shouldn't  I? 

Swanwhite.  I  cannot  tell;  I  cannot  tell.  Go — go  away 
from  uir!     To-morrow  I  shall  tell  you,  hut  I  can't  to-day. 

PRINCE.  But  then  your  little  foot  will  suffer — let  me  pull 
the  needle  out ! 

Swanwhtte.  Go,  go.  go! — No,  no,  you  mustn't  try! — Oh, 
bad  my  mother  lived,  a  thing  like  this  could  not  have  hap- 
pened!     Mother,  mother,  mother! 

Prince.  I  cannot  understand — are  you  afraid  of  me ? 

Swanwhtte.  Don't  ask  me,  please — just  leave  me — oh! 

Prince.  What  have  I  done? 

S\\  wuiiitk.  Don't  leave  me,  please —  I  didn't  mean  to 
hurt  you  l>ut  1  cannot  tell  If  I  could  only  reach  the 
shore—  the  white  sand  of  the  beach 


S  W  A  N  W  H  I  T  E  33 

Prince.  What  then? 

Swanwhite.  I  cannot  tell!     I  cannot  tell! 

[She  hides  her  face  in  her  hands. 

Once  more  the  peacock  makes  a  rattling  sound  with  his 

bill;  the  doves   begin  to  stir;  the  three  maids  enter. 

one  after  the  other;  a  gust  of  wind  is  heard,  and  the 

tops  of  the  rose-trees  outside  swing  back  and  forth; 

the  golden  clouds  that  have  been  hanging  over  the  sea 

disappear,  and  the  blue  sea  itself  turns  dark. 

Swanwhite.  Does  Heaven  itself  intend  to  judge  us? — Is 

ill-luck  in  the  house? — Oh,  that  my  sorrow  had  the  power 

to  raise  my  mother  from  her  grave! 

Prince.  [Putting  his  hand  on  his  sword]  My  life  for  yours ! 
Swanwhite.  No,  don't — she  puts  the  very  swords  to  sleep! 
— Oh,  that  my  sorrow  could  bring  back  my  mother!   [The 
swallows  chirp  in  their  nest]  What  was  that? 

Prince.  [Catching  sight  of  the  nest]  A  swallow's  nest!  I 
didn't  notice  it  before. 

Swanwhite.  Nor  I!  How  did  it  get  there?  When? — 
But  all  the  same  it  augurs  good — And  yet  the  cold  sweat  of 
fear  is  on  my  brow — and  I  choke —  Look,  how  the  rose  itself 
is  withering  because  that  evil  woman  comes  this  way — for  it 

is  she  who  comes 

The  rose  on  the  table  is  closing  its  blossom  and  drooping 
its  leaves. 
Prince.  But  whence  came  the  swallows? 
Swanwhite.  They  were  not  sent  by  her,  I'm  sure,  for 
they  are  kindly  birds —     Now  she  is  here! 

Stepmother.  [Enters  from  the  rear  with  the  walk  of  a  pan- 
ther; the  rose  on  the  table  is  completely  withered]  Signe — take 
the  horn  out  of  the  bed! 

Signe  goes  up  to  the  bed  and  takes  the  horn. 
Stepmother.  Where  are  you  going,  Prince? 


S4  SWAN  WHITE 

Prince.  The  day  is  almost  clone,  Your  Grace;  the  sun  is 
Betting,  and  my  l>ark  is  longing  to  get  home. 

Stepmother,  The  day  is  too  far  gone — the  gates  are  shut, 
the  dogs  lei  loose         You  know  my  dogs? 
Prince.  Indeed!    You  know  my  sword? 
Stepmother.  What  is  the  matter  with  your  sword? 
Prince.  It  bleeds  at  times. 

Stepmother.  Well,  well!  But  not  with  women's  blood,  I 
trust?-  Hut  listen,  Prince:  how  would  like  to  sleep  in  our 
Blue  Room? 

I'm  mi:.   By  (iod,  it  is  my  will  to  sleep  at  home,  in  my 

nun  bed 

Stepmother.  Is  that  the  will  of  anybody  else? 

Prince.  Of  many  more. 

Stepmother.  How  many? — More  than  these! — One,  two, 

three 

As  she  counts,  the  members  of  the  household  begin  to  pass 
by  in  single  file  across  the  balcony;  all  of  them  look 
serious;  some  are  armed;   no  one  turns  his  head  to 
look  into  the  room;  among  those  that  pass  are  the  But- 
ler, the  Steward,  the  Kitchener,  the  Gaoler,  the 
Constable,  the  Equerry. 
Prince.  I'll  sleep  in  your  Blue  Room. 
Stepmother.  That's   what  I   thought. — So  you  will  bid 
tin  thousand  good-nights  unto  your  love — and  so  will  Swan- 
vrhite,  too,  1  think! 

A  sunn  comes  flying  by  above  the  rosery;  from  the  ceiling 
a  poppy  flower  drops  down  on  the  Stepmother,  who 
falls  asleep  at  once,  as  do  the  maids. 
Swanwhite.  [Going  up  to  the   Prince]  Good-night,   my 
Prince! 

PBINCE.  [Talccs  her  hand  and  says  in  a  low  voice]  Good- 
night!— Oh,  that  it's  granted  me  to  sleep  beneath  one  roof 


S  W  A  X  W  HITE  35 

with  you,  my  Princess — your  dreams  by  mine  shall  be  en- 
folded—and  then  to-morrow  we  shall  wake  for  other  games 
and  other 

Swan  white.  [In  the  same  tone]  You  are  my  all  on  earth, 
you  are  my  parent  now — since  she  has  robbed  me  of  my 
puissant  father's  help. — Look,  how  she  sleeps! 

Prince.  You  saw  the  swan? 

Swanwhite.  No,  but  I  heard — it  was  my  mother. 

Prince.  Come,  fly  with  me! 

Swanwthite.  No,  that  we  mustn't! — Patience!  We'll  meet 
in  our  dreams! — But  this  will  not  be  possible  unless — you 
love  me  more  than  anybody  else  on  earth!  Oh,  love  me — 
you,  you,  you! 

Prince.  My  king,  my  loyalty 


Swanwhite.  Your  queen,  your  heart — or  what  am  I? 

Prince.  I  am  a  knight! 

Swanwhite.  But  I  am  not.  And  therefore — therefore  do 

I  take  you — my  Prince 

She  puts  her  hands  up  to  her  mouth  with  a  gesture  as  if 
she  were  throwing  a  whispered  name  to  him. 

Prince.  Oh,  woe!     What  have  you  done? 

Swanwhite.  I  gave  myself  to  you  through  your  own  name 
— and  with  me,  carried  on  your  wings,  yourself  came  back 
to  you !     Oh [Again  she  whispers  the  name. 

Prince.  [With  a  movement  of  his  hand  as  if  he  were  catching 
the  name  in  the  air]  Was  that  a  rose  you  threw  me? 

[He  throws  a  kiss  to  he.4. 

Swanwhite.  A  violet  you  gave  me — that  was  you — y>ur 
soul!  And  now  I  drink  you  in — you're  in  my  bosom,  i-  my 
heart — you're  mine! 

Prince.  And  you  are  mine!  Who  is  the  rightful  uwner, 
then? 

Swanwhite.  Both! 


S  W  A  N  WHITE 
l'iiiN.  i:.   Both!     Vou  and  I!— My  rose! 

Sw  AN  WHITE.    My   violet! 

1'ki\<  e.  My  rose! 
Swwwhitk.  My  violet! 
Prince.  1  love  you! 
Sw  awvhite.    Vou  love  met 
Phince.  You  love  me! 
Su  AN  WHITE.  /  love  you  ! 

The  stage  grows  light  again.     The  rose  on  the  table  re- 
covers and  opens.     The  faces  of  the  Stepmother  and 
the  three  maids  are  lighted  up  and  appear  beautiful, 
hind,   and  happy.     The  Stepmother   lifts   up   her 
drowsy  head  and,  while  her  eyes  remain  closed,  she 
seems  to  be  watching  the  joy  of  the  two  young  people 
uitli  a  sunny  smile. 
Swanwhitk.   Look,  look!     The  cruel  one  is  smiling  as  at 
-  ime   memory   from   childhood   days.     See  how   Signe   the 
I  alse  seems  faith  and  hope  embodied,  how  the  ugly  Tova 
lias  grown  beautiful,  the  little  Elsa  tall. 
PHINCE.  Our  love  has  done  it. 

Swan  white.  So  that  is  love?     Blessed  be  it  by  the  Lord! 
1  he  Lord  Omnipotent  who  made  the  world! 

[She  falls  on  her  knees,  weeping. 
Prince.  You  weep? 

Swan  white.  Because  I  am  so  full  of  joy. 
Prince.  Come  to  my  arms  and  you  will  smile. 
Su  a \  white.  There  I  should  die,  I  think. 
Phince.  Well,  smile  and  die! 
-    w  white.  [Rising]  So  be  it  then! 

[  The  Prince  takes  her  in  his  arms. 

'mother.  [Wakes  up;  on  seeing  the  Prince  and  Swan- 

hiti.  together,  site  strikes  the  table  with  the  whip]  I  must 

*vi    il<  Oho!     So    w.-    have   got    that   far!— The   Blue 


SWAN  WHITE  :; 

Room  did  I  say? — I  meant  the  Blue  Tower!     There   the 
prince  is  to  sleep  with  the  Duke  of  Exeter's  daughter ! — Maids ! 
The  maids  wake  up. 

Stepmother.  Show  the  prince  the  shortest  way  to  the 
Blue  Tower.  And  should  he  nevertheless  lose  his  way,  yon 
may  summon  the  Castellan  and  the  Gaoler,  the  Equerry  and 
the  Constable. 

Prince.  No  need  of  that!  Wherever  leads  my  course — 
through  fire  or  water,  up  above  the  clouds  or  down  in  the 
solid  earth — there  shall  I  meet  my  Swanwhite,  for  she  is 
with  me  where  I  go.  So  now  I  go  to  meet  her — in  the  tower! 
Can  you  beat  that  for  witchcraft,  witch? — Too  hard,  I  lliink, 
for  one  who  knows  not  love! 

[He  goes  out  followed  by  the  maids. 

Stepmother.  [To  Swanwhite]  Not  many  words  are 
needed — tell  your  wishes — but  be  brief! 

Swanwhite.  My  foremost,  highest  wish  is  for  some  water 
with  which  to  lave  my  feet. 

Stepmother.  Cold  or  warm? 

Swanwhite.  Warm — if  I  may. 

Stepmother.  What  more? 

Swanwhite.  A  comb  to  ravel  out  my  hair. 

Stepmother.  Silver  or  gold? 

Swanwhite.  Are  you — are  you  kind? 

Stepmother.  Silver  or  gold? 

Swanwhite.  Wood  or  horn  will  do  me  well  enough. 

Stepmother.  What  more? 

Swanwhite.  A  shift  that's  clean. 

Stepmother.  Linen  or  silk? 

Swanwhite.  Just  linen. 

Stepmother.  Good!  So  I  have  heard  your  wishes.  Now 
listen  to  mine!  I  wish  that  you  may  have  no  water,  lie  il 
warm  or  cold!     I  wish  that  you  may  have  no  comb,  of  any 


38  S  W  A  N  WHITE 

kind,  not  even  of  wood  or  horn — much  less  of  gold  or  silver. 
That's  how  kind  I  am!  I  wish  that  you  may  wear  no  linen 
— but  get  you  at  once  into  the  closet  there  to  cover  up  your 
body  with  that  dingy  sark  of  homespun!  Such  is  my  word! 
And  if  you  try  to  leave-  these  rooms — which  you  had  better 
not,  as  there  are  traps  and  snares  around — then  you  are 
doomed — or  with  my  whip  I'll  mark  your  pretty  face  so  that 
no  prince  or  king  will  ever  look  at  you  again! — Then  get  your- 
self to  bed! 

She  strikes  the  table  with  her  whip  again,  rises  and  goes 
out  through  the  middle  arch  of  the  doorway;  the  gates, 
which  have  gilded  bars,  squeak  and  rattle  as  she  closes 
and  locks  them. 

Curtain. 


The  same  scene  as  before,  but  the  golden  gates  at  the  rear  are 
shut.  The  peacock  and  the  doves  are  sleeping.  The  golden 
clouds  in  the  sky  are  as  dull  in  colour  as  the  sea  itself  and 
the  land  that  appears  in  the  far  distance. 

Swanwhite  is  lying  on  the  bed;  she  has  on  a  garment  of  black 
homespun. 

The  doors  to  the  three  closets  are  open.  In  each  doorway  stands 
one  of  the  maids,  her  eyes  closed  and  in  one  of  her  hands 
a  small  lighted  lamp  of  Roman  pattern. 

A  swan  is  seen  flying  above  the  rosery,  and  trumpet-calls  are 
heard,  like  those  made  by  flocks  of  migrating  wild  swans. 

The  Mother  of  Swanwhite,  all  in  white,  appears  outside  the 
gates.  Over  one  arm  she  carries  the  plumage  of  a  swan 
and  on  the  other  one  a  small  harp  of  gold.  She  hangs  the 
plumage  on  one  of  the  gates,  which  opens  of  Us  own  accord 
and  then  closes  in  the  same  way  behind  her. 

She  enters  the  room  and  places  the  harp  on  the  table.  Then  she 
looks  around  and  becomes  aware  of  Swanwhite.  At  once 
the  harp  begins  to  play.  The  lamps  carried  by  the  maids 
go  out  one  by  one,  beginning  with  that  farthest  away. 
Then  the  three  doors  close  one  by  one,  beginning  with  the 
innermost. 

The  golden  clouds  resume  their  former  radiance. 

The  Mother  lights  one  of  the  lamps  on  the  stand  and  goes  up 
to  the  bed,  beside  which  she  kneels. 

The  harp  continues  to  play  during  the  ensuing  episode. 

The  Mother  rises,  takes  Swanwhite  in  her  arms,  and  places 
her,  still  sleeping,  in  a  huge  arm-chair.     Then  she  kneels 

39 


10  S  W  A  N  W  II  ITE 

doicn  and  jndls  <,ff  SwANWHITE's  stockings.  Having 
tkroum  these  under  the  bed,  ske  bends  over  her  daughter's 
feet  (U  if  to  moisten  them  with  her  tears.  After  a  while  she 
wipes  them  with  a  white  linen  cloth  and  covers  them  with 
hisses.  Finally  she  puts  a  sandal  on  each  foot  which  then 
appears  shining  white. 

Then  the  Mother  rises  to  her  feet  again,  takes  out  a  comb  of 
gold,  and  begins  to  comb  Swanwhite's  hair.  This  finished, 
she  carries  SwANWHlTE  back  to  the  bed.  Beside  her  she 
places  a  garment  of  white  linen  which  she  takes  out  of  a 
bag. 

liming  kissed  Swanwhite  on  the  forehead,  she  prepares  to 
leave.  At  that  moment  a  white  swan  is  seen  to  pass  by 
outside,  and  one  hears  a  trumpet-call  like  the  one  heard 
before.  Shortly  afterward  the  Mother  of  the  Prince, 
also  in  white,  inters  through  the  gate,  having  first  hung 
fa  r  swan  plumage  on  it. 

Swanwhite's  Mother.  Well  met,  my  sister!  How  long 
before  the  cock  will  crow? 

Prince's  Mother.  Not  very  long.  The  dew  is  rising 
from  the  roses,  the  corn-crake's  call  is  heard  among  the  grass, 
the  morning  breeze  is  coming  from  the  sea. 

Swanwhite's  Mother.  Let  us  make  haste  with  what  we 
have  on  hand,  my  sister. 

Prince's  Mother.  You  called  me  so  that  we  might  talk 
of  our  children. 

Su  ww  mi  is  MOTHER.  Once  I  was  walking  in  a  green  field 
in  the  land  thai  knows  no  sorrow.  There  I  met  you,  whom  I 
h;i<)  always  known,  yet  had  not  seen  before.  You  were  la- 
menting your  poor  hoy's  fate,  left  to  himself  here  in  the  vale 
of  Borrow.  You  opened  up  your  heart  to  me,  and  my  own 
thoughts,  thai  dwell  unwillingly  below,  were  sent  in  search 


SWAN WHITE  U 

of  ray  deserted  daughter — destined  to  marry  the  young  king, 
who  is  a  cruel  man,  and  evil. 

Prince's  Mother.  Then  I  spoke,  while  you  listened: 
"May  worth  belong  to  worth;  may  love,  the  powerful,  pre- 
vail; and  let  us  join  these  lonely  hearts,  in  order  that  they 
may  console  each  other!" 

Swanwhite's  Mother.  Since  then  heart  has  kissed  heart 
and  soul  enfolded  soul.  May  sorrow  turn  to  joy,  and  may 
their  youthful  happiness  bring  cheer  to  all  the  earth! 

Prince's  Mother.   If  it  be  granted  by  the  powers  on  high ! 

Swanwhite's  Mother.  That  must  be  tested  by  the  fire 
of  suffering. 

Prince's  Mother.  [Taking  in  her  hand  the  helmet  left  be- 
hind by  the  Prince]  May  sorrow  turn  to  joy — this  very  day, 
when  he  has  mourned  his  mother  one  whole  year! 

She  exchanges  the  black  feathers  on  the  helmet  for  trhite 
and  red  ones. 

Swanwhite's  Mother.  Your  hand,  my  sister — let  the 
test  begin! 

Prince's  Mother.  Here  is  my  hand,  and  with  it  goes  my 
son's!     Now  we  have  pledged  them 

Swanwhite's  Mother.  In  decency  and  honour! 

Prince's  Mother.  I  go  to  open  up  the  tower.  And  let 
the  young  ones  fold  each  other  heart  to  heart. 

Swanwhite's  Mother.  In  decency  and  honour! 

Prince's  Mother.  And  we  shall  meet  again  in  those  green 
fields  where  sorrow  is  not  known. 

Swanwhite's  Mother.  [Pointing  to  Swanw'hite]  Listen! 
She  dreams  of  him! — Oh  foolish,  cruel  woman  who  thinks 
that  lovers  can  be  parted! — Now  they  are  walking  hand  in 
hand  within  the  land  of  dreams,  'neath  whispering  firs  and 
singing  lindens —     They  sport  and  laugh 

Prince's  Mother.  Hush!    Day  is  dawning — I  can  hear 


S  W  A  N  W  II  I  T  E 

the  robins  calling,  and  sec  the  stars  withdrawing  from  the 
>ky  -     Farewell,  my  sister! 

[She  goes  out,  taking  her  .swan  plumage  with  her. 
Swanwhitk's  Mother.  Farewell! 

She  passes  her  hand  over  Swanwhite  as  if  blessing  her, 
then  she  takes  her  plumage  and  leaves,  closing  the  gate 
after  her. 

The  dock  on  the  table  strikes  three.  The  harp  is  silent  for 
a  moment;  then  it  begins  to  play  a  new  melody  of  even 
greater  sweetness  than  before.  Swanwhite  wakes  up  and 
looks  aroutud;  listens  to  the  harp;  gets  up  from  the  bed; 
draws  her  hands  through  her  hair;  looks  with  pleasure  at 
hi  r  own  little  feet,  now  spotlessly  clean,  and  notices  finally 
the  white  linen  garment  on  the  bed.  She  sits  doien  at  the 
table  in  the  place  she  occupied  during  the  evening.  She 
acts  as  if  she  were  looking  at  somebody  sitting  opposite  her 
at  the  table,  where  the  Prince  was  seated  the  night  before. 
She  looks  .straight  into  his  eyes,  smiles  a  smile  of  recogni- 
tion, and  holds  out  one  of  her  hands.  Her  lips  move  at 
times  as  if  she  were  speaking,  and  then  again  she  seems 
to  be  listening  to  an  answer. 

Shr  points  meaningly  to  the  while  and  red  feathers  on  the  hel- 
met, and  leans  forward  as  if  whispering.  Then  she  puts 
her  head  back  and  breathes  deeply  as  if  to  fill  tier  nostrils 
with  some  fragrance.  Having  caught  something  in  the  air 
m'ih  one  of  her  hands,  she  kisses  the  hand  and  then  pre- 
t>  mis  to  throw  something  back  across  the  table.  She  picks 
a ji  the  quill  and  caresses  it  as  if  it  were  a  bird;  then  she 
writes  and  pushes  the  parchment  across  the  table.  Her 
glances  seem  to  follow  "his"  pen  while  the  reply  is  being 
uritt,  a,  and  at  last  .she  takes  back  the  parchment,  reads  it, 
and  hides  it  in  her  bosom. 


SWANWHITE  43 

She  strokes  her  black  dress  as  if  commenting  on  the  sad  change 
in  her  appearance.  Whereupon  she  smiles  at  an  inau- 
dible answer,  and  finally  bursts  into  hearty  laughter. 

By  gestures  she  indicates  that  her  hair  has  been  combed.  Tlien 
she  rises,  goes  a  little  distance  away  from  the  table,  and 
turns  around  with  a  bashful  expression  to  hold  oxd  one  of 
her  feet.  In  that  attitude  she  stays  for  a  moment  while 
waiting  for  an  answer.  On  hearing  it  she  becomes  em- 
barrassed and  hides  her  foot  quickly  under  her  dress. 

She  goes  to  the  chest  and  takes  out  the  chess-board  and  the 
chess-men,  which  she  places  on  the  lion's  skin  trith  a 
gesture  of  invitation.  Then  she  lies  down  beside  the  board, 
arranges  the  men,  and  begins  to  play  with  an  invisible 
partner. 

The  harp  is  silent  for  a  moment  before  it  starts  a  new  melody. 

The  game  of  chess  ends  and  Swanwhite  seems  to  be  talking 
with  her  invisible  partner.  Suddenly  she  moves  away  as 
if  he  were  coming  too  close  to  her.  With  a  deprecating 
gesture  she  leaps  lightly  to  her  feet.  Then  she  gazes  long 
and  reproachfully  at  him.  At  last  she  snatches  up  the 
white  garment  and  hides  herself  behind  the  bed. 

At  that  moment  the  Prince  appears  outside  the  gates,  which  he 
vainly  tries  to  open.  Then  he  raises  his  eyes  toward  the 
sky  with  an  expression  of  sorrow  and  despair. 

Swanwhite.  [Coming  forward]  Who  comes  with  the  morn- 
ing wind? 

Prince.  Your  heart's  beloved,  your  prince,  your  all ! 

Swanwhite.  Whence  do  you  come,  my  heart's  beloved? 

Prince.  From  dreamland;  from  the  rosy  hills  that  hide 
the  dawn;  from  whispering  firs  and  singing  lindens. 

Swanwhite.  What  did  you  do  in  dreamland,  beyond  the 
hills  of  dawn,  my  heart's  beloved? 


M  SWANWHITE 

PRINCE.  I  Bported  and  laughed;  I  wrote  her  name;  I  sat 
upon  tlif  lion's  skin  and  played  at  chess. 

Sw  AN  WHITE.  You  sported  and  you  played — with  whom? 

Prince.  With  Swan  white. 

Swan  white.  It  is  he! — Be  welcome  to  my  castle,  my 
table,  and  my  arms! 

Prince.  Who  opens  up  the  golden  gates? 

Swanwhite.  Give  me  your  hand! — It  is  as  chilly  as  your 
heart  is  warm. 

Prince.  My  body  has  been  sleeping  in  the  tower,  while 
my  soul  was  wandering  in  dreamland —  In  the  tower  it  was 
cold  and  dark. 

Swanwhite.  In  my  bosom  will  I  warm  your  hand —  I'll 
warm  it  by  my  glances,  by  my  kisses! 

Prince.  Oh,  let  the  brightness  of  your  eyes  be  shed  upon 
my  darkness! 

Swanwhite.  Are  you  in  darkness? 

Prince.  Within  the  tower  there  was  no  light  of  sun  or 
moon. 

Swanwhite.  Rise  up,  0  sun!  Blow,  southern  wind!  And 
let  thy  bosom  gently  heave,  O  sea! — Ye  golden  gates,  do  you 
believe  thai  you  can  part  two  hearts,  two  hands,  two  lips — 
that  can  by  nothing  be  divided? 

Prince.  Indeed,  by  nothing! 

Two  solid  tloors  glide  together  in  front  of  the  gates  so  that 
Swanwhite  and  the  Prince  can  no  longer  see  each 
other. 

Swanwhite.  Alas!  What  was  the  word  we  spoke,  who 
heard  it.  and  who  punished  us? 

Prince.  I  am  not  parted  from  you,  my  beloved,  for  still 
the  sound  of  my  voice  can  reach  you.  It  goes  through  cop- 
I'«t.  ste<  I.  and  stone  to  touch  your  ear  in  sweet  caress.    When 


SWANWHITE  45 

in  my  thoughts  you're  in  my  arms.     I  kiss  you  in  my  dreams. 
For  on  this  earth  there  is  not  anything  that  can  part  us. 

Swanwhite.  Not  anything! 

Prince.  I  see  you,  though  my  eyes  cannot  behold  you. 
I  taste  you,  too,  because  with  roses  you  are  filling  up  my 
mouth 

Swanwhite.  But  in  my  arms  I  want  you! 

Prince.  I  am  there. 

Swanwhite.  No!  Against  my  heart  I  want  to  feel  the 
beat  of  yours —  Upon  your  arm  I  want  to  sleep —  Oh,  let 
us,  let  us,  dearest  God — oh,  let  us  have  each  other! 

The  swallows  chirp.  A  small  white  feather  falls  to  the 
ground.  Swanwhite  picks  it  up  and  discovers  it 
to  be  a  key.  With  this  she  opens  gates  and  doors. 
The  Prince  comes  in.  Swanwhite  leaps  into  his 
arms.     He  kisses  her  on  the  mouth. 

Swanwhite.  You  do  not  kiss  me! 

Prince.  Yes,  I  do ! 

Swanwhite.  I  do  not  feel  your  kisses! 

Prince.  Then  you  love  me  not! 

Swanwhite.  Hold  me  fast! 

Prince.  So  fast  that  life  may  part! 

Swanwhite.  Oh,  no,  I  breathe! 

Prince.  Give  me  your  soul ! 

Swanwhite.  Here! — Give  me  yours! 

Prince.  It's  here! — So  I  have  yours,  and  you  have  mine! 

Swanwhite.  I  want  mine  back! 

Prince.  Mine,  too,  I  want! 

Swanwhite.  Then  you  must  seek  it! 

Prince.  Lost,  both  of  us!     For  I  am  you,  and  you  are  me! 

Swanwhite.  We  two  are  one! 

Prince.  God,  who  is  good,  has  heard  your  prayer!  We 
have  each  other! 


M    -  SWAN WHITE 

Swanwhite.  We  have  each  other,  yet  I  have  you  not.  I 
cannot  feel  the  pressure  of  your  hand,  your  lip's  caress—  I 
cannot  see  your  eyes,  nor  hear  your  voice —    You  are  not  here ! 

Prince.  Yes,  I  am  here! 

Swanwhite.  Yes,  here  below.  But  up  above,  in  dream- 
land. I  would  meet  you. 

Pbznce.    Then  let  us  fly  upon  the  wings  of  sleep 

Swanwhite.  Close  to  your  heart! 

Prince.  In  my  embrace! 

Swanwhite.  Within  your  arms! 

Prince.  This  is  the  promised  bliss! 

Swanwhite.  Eternal  bliss,  that  has  no  flaw  and  knows  no 
end! 

Prince.  Xo  one  can  part  us. 

Swanwhite.  No  one! 

Prince.  Are  you  my  bride? 

Swanwhite.  My  bridegroom,  you? 

Prince.  In  dreamland— but  not  here! 

Swanwhite.  Where  are  we? 

Prince.  Here  below  ! 

Swanwhite.  Here,  where  the  sky  is  clouded,  where  the 
ocean  roars,  and  where  each  night  the  earth  sheds  tears  upon 
the  grass  while  waiting  for  the  dawn;  where  flies  are  killed 
by  swallows,  doves  by  hawks;  where  leaves  must  fall  and 
turn  to  dust;  where  eyes  must  lose  their  light  and  hands 
tln-ir  strength!     Yes,  here  below! 

Prince.  Then  let  us  fly! 

Swanwhite.  Yes,  let  us  fly! 

'I'h i  Green  Gardener  appears  suddenly  behind  the 
table.  All  his  clothes  arc  green.  He  wears  a  peaked 
<a/>,  a  b'uj  apron,  and  knee-breeches.  At  his  belt  hang 
shears  and  a  knife.  He  carries  a  small  watering-can 
in  mie  hand  and  is  scattering  seeds  everywhere. 


SWANWHITE  47 

Prince.  Who  are  you? 

Gardener.  I  sow,  I  sow! 

Prince.  What  do  you  sow? 

Gardener.  Seeds,  seeds,  seeds. 

Prince.  What  kind  of  seeds? 

Gardener.  Annuals  and  biennials.  One  pulls  this  way, 
two  pull  that.  When  the  bridal  suit  is  on,  the  harmony  is 
gone.  One  and  one  make  one,  but  one  and  one  make  also 
three.  One  and  one  make  two,  but  two  make  three.  Then 
do  you  understand? 

Prince.  You  mole,  you  earthworm,  you  who  turn  your 
forehead  toward  the  ground  and  show  the  sky  your  back — 
what  is  there  you  can  teach  me? 

Gardener.  That  you  are  a  mole  and  earthworm,  too. 
And  that  because  you  turn  your  back  on  the  earth,  the  earth 
will  turn  its  back  on  you.  [He  disappears  behind  the  table. 

Swan  white.  What  was  it?     Who  was  he? 

Prince.  That  was  the  green  gardener. 

Swanwhite.  Green,  you  say?     Was  he  not  blue? 

Prince.  No,  he  was  green,  my  love. 

Swanwhite.  How  can  you  say  what  is  not  so? 

Prince.  My  heart's  beloved,  I  have  not  said  a  thing  that 
was  not  so. 

Swanwhite.  Alas,  he  does  not  speak  the  truth! 

Prince.  Whose  voice  is  this?     Not  that  of  Swanwhite! 

Swanwhite.  Who  is  this  my  eyes  behold?  Not  my 
Prince,  whose  very  name  attracted  me  like  music  of  the  Neck, 
or  song  of  mermaids  heard  among  green  waves—  Who  are 
you?    You  stranger  with  the  evil  eyes — and  with  grey  hair! 

Prince.  You  did  not  see  it  until  now — my  hair,  that 
turned  to  grey  within  the  tower,  in  a  single  night,  when  I 
was  mourning  for  my  Swanwhite,  who  is  no  longer  here. 

Swanwhite.  Yes,  here  is  Swanwhite. 


18  SWANWHITE 

1*ki\<  E.  \^  I  see  a  blacks-lad  maid,  whose  face  is  black 

w\  niTK.  Have  you  not  seen  before  that  I  was  clad  in 
black?     You  do  not  love  me,  then! 

Pkin.  i:.  You  who  are  standing  there,  so  grim  and  ugly 

— no! 

Su  an  white.  Then  you  have  spoken  falsely. 

Piu\<  E.  No— for  then  another  one  was  here!     Now — you 
arc  filling  up  my  mouth  with  noisome  nettles. 

S\v  \\\\  m  it:.  Your  violets  smell  of  henbane  now — faugh! 

Prince.  Thus  I  am  punished  for  my  treason  to  the  king! 

Su  an  white.  I  wish  that  I  had  waited  for  your  king! 

Prince.  Just  wait,  and  he  will  come. 

Su  a\  white.  I  will  not  wait,  but  go  to  meet  him. 

Prince.  Then  I  will  stay. 

Su  a\u  BOTE,  [doing  toward  the  background]  And  this  is  love! 

Prince.  [Beside  himself]  Where  is  my  Swanwhite?     Where, 
where,  where?     The  kindest,  loveliest,  most  beautiful? 

Swanwhite.  Seek  her! 

Prince.  'Twould  not  avail  me  here  below7. 

Su  anwhite.  Elsewhere  then!  [She  goes  out. 

The  Prince  is  alone.  He  sits  down  at  tlie  table,  covers 
his  face  iritJi  his  hands,  and  weeps.  A  gust  of  wind 
passes  through  the  room  and  sets  draperies  and  cur- 
tains fluid  ring.  A  sound  as  of  a  sigh  is  heard  from 
tin  strings  of  the  harp.  The  Prince  rises,  goes  to 
the  bvil,  and  stands  there  lost  in  contemplation  of  its 
pillow  in  which  is  a  depression  showing  Swanwhite's 
//.  ml  in  profile.  He  picks  up  the  pillow  and  kisses 
it.  A  noise  is  heard  outside.  He  seats  himself  at 
tin  tablr  again. 
Tin  doors  of  the  closets  fly  open.  The  three  Maids 
become  visible,  all  with  darkened  faces.  The  Step- 
mi  »i  in. u  enters  from  the  rear.     Her  face  is  also  dark. 


S  W  A  N  W  II  I  T  E  4!> 

Stepmother.  [In  dulcet  tones]  Good  morning,  my  dear 
Prince!     How  have  you  slept? 

Prince.  Where  is  Swan  white? 

Stepmother.  She  lias  gone  to  marry  her  young  king.  Is 
there  no  thought  of  things  like  that  in  your  own  mind,  my 
Prince? 

Prince.  I  harbour  but  a  single  thought 

Stepmother.  Of  little  Swan  white? 

Prince.  She  is  too  young  for  me,  you  mean? 

Stepmother.  Grey  hairs  and  common  sense  belong  to- 
gether as  a  rule —     I  have  a  girl  with  common  sense 

Prince.  And  I  grey  hairs? 

Stepmother.  He  knows  it  not,  believes  it  not!  Come, 
maids!  Come,  Signe,  Elsa,  Tova!  Let's  have  a  good  laugh 
at  the  young  suitor  and  his  grey  hairs ! 

The  Maids  begin  to  laugh.     TJie  Stepmother  joins  in. 

Prince.  Where  is  Swan  white? 

Stepmother.  Follow  in  her  traces — here  is  one! 

[She  hands  him  a  parchment  covered  with  ivriting. 

Prince.  [Reading]  And  she  wrote  this? 

Stepmother.  You  know  her  hand — what  has  it  written? 

Prince.  That  she  hates  me,  and  loves  another — that  she 
has  played  with  me;  that  she  will  throw  my  kisses  to  the 
wind,  and  to  the  swine  my  heart —  To  die  is  now  my  will ! 
Now  I  am  dead! 

Stepmother.  A  knight  dies  not  because  a  wench  has 
played  with  him.  He  shows  himself  a  man  and  takes  an- 
other. 

Prince.  Another?     When  there  is  only  one? 

Stepmother.  No,  two,  at  least!  My  Magdalene  possesses 
seven  barrels  full  of  gold. 

Prince.  Seven? 

Stepmother.  And  more.  [Pause. 


50  SWAN  WHITE 

Prince.  Where  is  Swanwhite? 

Stepmother.  My  Magdalene  is  skilled  in  many  crafts 

Prince.  Including  witchcraft? 

Stepmother.  She  knows  how  to  bewitch  a  princeling. 

PRINCE.  [( lazing  at  the  parchment]  And  this  was  written 
by  my  Swanwhite? 

Stepmother.  My  Magdalene  would  never  write  like  that . 

Prince.  And  she  is  kind? 

Stepmother.  Kindness  itself!  She  does  not  play  with 
sacred  feelings,  nor  seek  revenge  for  little  wrongs,  and  she  is 
faithful  to  the  one  she  likes. 

Prince.  Then  she  must  be  beautiful. 

Stepmother.  Not  beautiful ! 

Prince.  She  is  not  kind  then. — Tell  me  more  of  her! 

Stepmother.  See  for  yourself. 

Prince.  Where? 

Stepmother.  Here. 

Prince.  And  this  has  Swanwhite  written ? 

Stepmother.  My  Magdalene  had  written  with  more  feel- 
ing  

PRINCE.  What  would  she  have  written? 

Stepmother.  That 

Prince.  Speak  the  word!     Say  "love,"  if  you  are  able! 

Stepmother.  Lub! 

Prince.  You  cannot  speak  the  word! 

Stepmother.  Lud! 

Prince.  Oh,  no! 

Stepmother.  My  Magdalene  can  speak  it.  May  she 
come? 

Prince.  Yes,  let  her  come. 

Stepmother.  [Rising  and  speaking  to  the  Maids]  Blind- 


SWAN  WHITE  51 

fold  the  prince.    Then  in  his  arms  we'll  place  a  princess  that 
is  without  a  paragon  in  seven  kingdoms. 

Signe  steps  forward  and  covers  the  eyes  of  the  Prince 
with  a  bandage. 
Stepmother.  [Clapping  her  hands]  Well — is  she  not  com- 
ing? 

The  peacock  makes  a  rattling  noise  with  his  bill;  the 
doves  begin  to  coo. 
Stepmother.  What  is  the  matter?     Does  my  art  desert 
me?     Where  is  the  bride? 

Four  Maids  enter  from  the  rear,  carrying  baskets  of  white 
and  pink  roses.     Music  is  heard  from  above.     The 
Maids  go  tip  to  the  bed  and  scatter  roses  over  it. 
Then  come  Two  Knights  with,  closed  visors.     They  take 
the  Prince  between  them  toward  the  rear,  where  then 
meet  the  false  Magdalene,  escorted  by  two  ladies. 
The  bride  is  deeply  veiled. 
With  a  gesture  of  her  hand  the  Stepmother  bids  all 
depart  except  the  bridal  couple.     She  herself  leaves 
last  of  all,  after  she  has  closed  the  curtains  and  locked 
the  gates. 
Prince.  Is  this  my  bride? 
False  Magdalene.  Who  is  your  bride? 
Prince.  I  have   forgot   her  name.     Who   is  your  bride- 
groom? 

False  Magdalene.  He   whose  name  may   not  be  men- 
tioned. 
Prince.  Tell,  if  you  can. 
False  Magdalene.  I  can,  but  will  not. 
Prince.  Tell,  if  you  can! 
False  Magdalene.  Tell  my  name  first! 
Prince.  It's  seven  barrels  full  of  gold,  and  crooked  bad.. 


SWANWHITE 

and  grim,  and  hare-lipped!     What's  my  name?     Tell,  if  you 
can! 

False  Magdalene.  Prince  Greyhead ! 

Prince.  You're  right ! 

The  False  Magdalene  throws  off  her  veil,  and  Swan- 
wiiite  .stands-  revealed. 

Swan  white.  [Dressed  in  a  white  garment,  with  a  wreath  of 
roses  on  her  hair]  Who  am  I  now? 

Prince.  You  are  a  rose! 

Sw  w  white.  And  you  a  violet! 

Prince.  [Taking  off  the  bandage]  You  are  Swan  white! 

Sw  wwiiite.  And  you — are 

Prince.  Hush! 

Swan  white.  You're  mine! 

Prince.  But  you — you  left  me — left  my  kisses 


Sw  an  white.  I  have  returned — because  I  love  you! 

Prince.  And  you  wrote  cruel  words 

Swanwhtte.  But  cancelled  them — because  I  love  you.' 

Prince.  You  told  me  I  was  false. 

Swan  white.  What  matters  it,  when  you  are  true — and 
when  I  love  you? 

PRINCE.  You  wished  that  you  were  going  to  the  king. 

Sw  ww  iiite.  But  went  to  you  instead,  because  I  love  you! 

PRINCE.  Now  let  me  hear  what  you  reproach  me  with. 

Swan  white.  I  have  forgotten  it — because  I  love  you! 

Prince.  But  if  you  love  me,  then  you  are  my  bride. 

Swww  kite.  I  am! 

Prince.  Then  may  the  heavens  bestow  their  blessing  on 
our  union! 

Swanwhtte.  In  dreamland! 

Prxni  i..  With  your  head  upon  my  arm! 

The  Prince  leads  Swanwhite  to  the  bed,  in  which  he 
places  his  sword.     Then  she  lies  down  on  one  side  of 


SWAN  WHITE  53 

the  sword,  and  he  on  the  other.    The  colour  of  the  clouds 
changes  to  a  rosy  red.      The  rose-trees  murmur.      Tin- 
harp  plays  softly  and  sweetly. 
Prince.  Good  night,  my  queen! 

Swanwhite.  Good  morning,  O  my  soul's  beloved!  I  hear 
the  beating  of  .your  heart —  I  hear  it  sigh  like  billowing 
waters,  like  swift-flying  steeds,  like  wings  of  eagles —  Give 
me  your  hand! 

Prince.  And  yours ! — Now  we  take  wing 

Stepmother.  [Enters  with  the  Maids,  who  carry  torches; 
all  four  have  become  grey-haired]  I  have  to  see  that  my  task 
is  finished  ere  the  duke  returns.  My  daughter.  Magdalene, 
is  plighted  to  the  prince — while  Swanwhite  lingers  in  the 
tower —  [Goes  to  the  bed]  They  sleep  already  in  each  other's 
arms — you  bear  me  witness,  maids! 
The  Maids  approach  the  bed. 
Stepmother.  What  do  I  see?  Each  one  of  you  is  grey- 
haired  ! 

Signe.  And  so  are  you,  Your  Grace! 
Stepmother.  Am  I?     Let  me  see! 

Elsa  holds  a  mirror  in  front  of  her. 
Stepmother.  This  is  the  work  of  evil  powers! — And  then, 
perhaps,  the  prince's  hair  is  dark  again? — Bring  light  this  way ! 
The  Maids  hold  their  torcJies  so  that  the  light  from  them 
falls  on  the  sleeping  couple. 
Stepmother.   Such  is  the  truth,  indeed! — How  beautiful 
they   look! — But — the   sword!     Who    placed    it    there — the 
sword  that  puts  at  naught  their  plighted  troth? 

Sfw  tries  to  take  away  the  sword,  but  tlw  Prince  clings 
to  it  without  being  wakened. 
Signe.  Your  Grace — here's  deviltry  abroad! 
Stepmother.  What  is  it? 
Signe.  This  is  not  Lady  Magdalene. 


54  SWANWHITE 

Stepmother.  Who  is  it,  then?     My  eyes  need  help. 

Signs.  "Tia  Lady  Swanwhite. 

Stepmother.  Swanwhite? — Can  this  be  some  delusion  of 
the  devfl'a  making,  or  have  I  done  what  I  least  wished? 

The  Prince  turns  his  head  in  his  sleep  so  that  his  lips 
meet  those  of  Swanwhite. 

Stepmother.  [Touched  by  the  beautiful  sight]  No  sight 
more  beautiful  have  I  beheld! — Two  roses  brought  together 
by  the  wind;  two  falling  stars  that  join  in  downward  flight — 
it  is  too  beautiful! — Youth,  beauty,  innocence,  and  love! 
What  memories,  sweet  memories — when  I  was  living  in  my 
father's  home — when  I  was  loved  by  him,  the  youth  whom 
never  I  called  mine —     What  did  I  say  I  was? 

Signe.  That  you  were  loved  by  him,  Your  Grace. 

Stepmother.  Then  I  did  speak  the  mighty  word.  Be- 
loved — so  he  named  me  once — "beloved" — ere  he  started 
for  the  war —  [Lost  in  thoughts]  It  was  the  last  of  him. — And 
so  I  had  to  take  the  one  I  couldn't  bear. — My  life  is  drawing 
to  its  close,  and  I  must  find  my  joy  in  happiness  denied  my- 
self! I  should  rejoice — at  others'  happiness — ■  Some  kind  of 
joy,  at  least — at  other  people's  love —  Some  kind  of  love,  at 
least —  But  there's  my  Magdalene?  What  joy  for  her?  O, 
love  omnipotent — eternally  creative  Lord — how  you  have 
rendered  soft  this  lion  heart!  Where  is  my  strength?  Where 
i>  my  hatred — my  revenge?  [She  seats  herself  and  looks  long 
at  the  sleeping  couple]  A  song  runs  through  my  mind,  a  song 
of  love  that  he  was  singing  long  ago,  that  final  night —  [She 
rises  as  if  waking  out  of  a  dream  and  flies  into  a  rage;  her  words 
come  with  a  roar]  Come  hither,  men!  Here,  Steward,  Cas- 
tellan, and  Gaoler — all  of  you!  [She  snatches  the  sword  out  of 
the  bed  and  thro  us  it  along  the  floor  toward  the  rear]  Come 
hither,  men! 

Noise  is  heard  outside;  the  men  enter  as  before. 


SWANWHIT  E  55 

Stepmother.  Behold!  The  prince,  the  young  king's  vas- 
sal, has  defiled  his  master's  bride!  You  bear  me  witness  to 
the  shameful  deed!  Put  chains  and  fetters  on  the  traitor 
and  send  him  to  his  rightful  lord!  But  in  the  spiked  ea.sk 
put  the  hussy.  [The  Prince  and  Swanwhite  wake  up] 
Equerry!     Gaoler!     Seize  the  prince! 

The  Equerry  and  the  Gaoler  lay  hands  on  the  Prince. 

Prince.  Where  is  my  sword?  I  fight  not  against  evil,  but 
for  innocence! 

Stepmother.  Whose  innocence? 

Prince.  My  bride's. 

Stepmother.  The  hussy's  innocence!     Then  prove  it! 

Swanwhite.  Oh,  mother,  mother! 
The  white  swan  flies  by  outside. 

Stepmother.  Maids,  bring  shears!  I'll  cut  the  harlot's 
hair! 

Signe  hands  her  a  pair  of  shears. 

Stepmother.  [Takesholdof  Swanwhite  by  the  hair  and  starts 
to  cut  it,  but  she  cannot  bring  the  blades  of  the  shears  together] 
Now  I'll  cut  off  your  beauty  and  your  love !  [Suddenly  she  is 
seized  with  panic,  which  quickly  spreads  to  the  men  and  the 
three  Maids]  Is  the  enemy  upon  us?  Why  are  you  trem- 
bling? 

Signe.  Your  Grace,  the  dogs  are  barking,  horses  neighing 
— it  means  that  visitors  are  near. 

Stepmother.  Quick,  to  the  bridges,  all  of  you!     Man  the 
ramparts!     Fall  to  with  flame  and  water,  sword  and  axe! 
The  Prince  and  Swanwhite  are  left  alone. 

Gardener.  [Appears  from  behind  the  table;  in  one  hand 
he  carries  a  rope,  the  Duke's  horn  in  the  other]  Forgiveness  for 
those  who  sin;  for  those  who  sorrow,  consolation;  and  hope 
for  those  who  are  distressed! 


56  SWAN  WHITE 

Sww white.  My  father's  horn!  Then  help  is  near!  But 
— the  prince? 

GABDENEB.  The  prince  will  follow  me.  A  secret  passage, 
underground,  leads  to  the  shore.  There  lies  his  bark.  The 
u  i lid  is  favourable!     Come! 

[The  Gardener  and  the  Prince  go  out. 
Swanwhite  alone,  blows  the  horn.     An  answering  sig- 
nal  is  heard   in   the  distance.     The  Gaoler  enters 
with  the  spiked  cask.     Swanwhite  blows  the    horn 
again.     The  answer  is  heard  much  nearer. 
The  Duke  enters,     lie  and  Swanw^hite  are  alone  on 
the  stage. 
Duke.  My  own  beloved  heart,  what  is  at  stake? 
Swanwhite.  Your  own  child,  father! — Look — the  spiked 
cask  over  there! 

Duke.  How  has  my  child  transgressed? 
Swanwhite.  The  prince's   name  I   learned,   by  love   in- 
structed— spoke  it — came  to  hold  him  very  dear. 
Duke.  That  was  no  capital  offence.     What  more? 

Swanwhite.  At  his  side  I  slept,  the  sword  between  us 

Duke.  And  still  there   was  no  capital  offence,  though  I 
should  hardly  call  it  wise —      And  more? 
Swanwhite.  Xo  more! 

Duke.  [To  the  Gaoler,  pointing  to  the  spiked  cask]  Away 
with  it!  [To  Swanwhite]  Well,  child,  where  is  the  prince? 
Su  \\  white.  He's  sailing  homeward  in  his  bark. 
Duke.  Now,  when  the  tide  is  battering  the  shore? — Alone? 
Swanwhite.  Alone!     What  is  to  happen? 
Duke.  The  Lord  alone  can  tell ! 
Swanwhite.  He's  in  danger? 
Duke.  Who  greatly  dares  has  sometimes  luck. 
Swanwhite.  He  ought  to  have! 


SWAN  WHITE  57 

Duke.  He  will,  if  free  from  guilt! 
Swanwhite.  He  is!     More  than  I  am! 
Stepmother.  [Entering]  How  came  you  here! 
Duke.  A  shortcut  brought  me —  I  could  wish  it  had  been 
shorter  still. 

Stepmother.  Had  it  been  short  enough,  your  child  had 
never  come  to  harm. 

Duke.  What  kind  of  harm? 

Stepmother.  The  one  for  which  there  is  no  cure. 

Duke.  And  you  have  proofs? 

Stepmother.  I've  valid  witnesses. 

Duke.  Then  call  my  butler. 

Stepmother.  He  does  not  know. 

Duke.  [Shaking  his  sword  at  her]  Call  my  butler! 

The  Stepmother  trembles.     Then  she  claps  her  Iiands 
four  times  together. 

The  Butler  enters. 
Duke.  Have  made  a  pie  of  venison,  richly  stuffed  with 
onions,  parsley,  fennel,  cabbage — and  at  once! 

The  Butler  steals  a  sidelong  glance  at  the  Stepmother. 
Duke.  What  are  you  squinting  at?     Be  quick! 

The  Butler  goes  out. 
Duke.  [To  the  Stepmother]  Now  call  the  master  of  my 
pleasure-garden. 
Stepmother.  He  does  not  know! 
Duke.  And  never  will!    But  he  must  come!    Call,  quick! 

The  Stepmother  claps  her  hands  six  times. 

The  Flower  Gardener  enters. 
Duke.  Three  lilies  bring:  one  white,  one  red,  one  blue. 

The  Gardener  looks  sideways  at  the  Stepmother. 
Duke.  Your  head's  at  stake! 
The  Gardener  goes  out. 


58  S  W  ANWHITE 

Duke.  Summon  your  witnesses! 

The  Stepmother  claps  her  hands  once. 
Signe  enters. 

Duke.  Tell  what  you  know — but  choose  your  words! 
What  have  you  seen? 

Signe.  I  have  seen  Lady  Swanwhite  and  the  prince  to- 
gether  in  one  bed. 

Duke.  With  sword  between? 

Signe.  Without. 

Duke.  I  can't  believe  it! — Other  witnesses? 
The  Two  Knights  enter. 

Duke.  Were  these  the  groomsmen? — Tell  your  tale. 

First  Knight.  The  Lady  Magdalene  I  have  escorted  to 
her  bridal  couch. 

Second  Knight.  The  Lady  Magdalene  I  have  escorted 
to  her  bridal  couch. 

Duke.  What's  that?     A  trick,  I  trow — that  caught  the 
trickster! — -Other  witnesses? 
Elsa  enters. 

Duke.  Tell  what  you  know. 

Elsa.  I  swear  by  God,  our  righteous  judge,  that  I  have 
n  the  prince  and  Lady  Swanwhite  fully  dressed  and  with 
a  sword  between  them. 

Duke.  One  for,  and  one  against — two  not  germane. — I 
leave  it  to  the  judgment  of  the  Lord! — The  flowers  will  speak 
for  him. 

Tova.  [Enters]  My  gracious  master — noble  lord! 

Duke.  What  do  you  know? 

ToVA.  I  know  my  gracious  mistress  innocent. 

Dike.  O,  child — so  you  know  that!  Then  teach  us  how 
to  know  it  too. 

Tova.   When  I  am  saying  only  what  is  true 

1  >i  kk.   No  one  believes  it!     But  when  Signe  tells  untruth, 


SWAN  W  HITE  50 

we  must  believe! — And  what  does  Swan  white  say  herself? 
Her  forehead's  purity,  her  steady  glance,  her  lips'  sweet  inno- 
cence— do  they  not  speak  aloud  of  slander?  And  "slander"  is 
the  verdict  of  a  father's  eye. — Well  then — Almighty  God  on 
high  shall  give  his  judgment,  so  that  human  beings  may 
believe! 

The  Flower  Gardener  enters  carrying  three  lilirs 
placed  in  three  tall  and  narrow  vases  of  glass.  The 
Duke  places  the  flowers  in  a  semicircle  on  the  table. 
The  Butler  enters  with  a  huge  dish  containing  a 
steaming  pie. 

Duke.  [Placing  the  dish  within  the  semicircle  formed  by 
the  three  flowers]  The  white  one  stands  for  whom? 

All.  [Except  Swanwhite  and  the  Stepmother]  For  Swan- 
white. 

Duke.  The  red  one  stands  for  whom? 

All.  [As  before]  The  prince. 

Duke.  For  whom  the  blue  one? 

All.  [As  before]  The  youthful  king. 

Duke.  Well,  Tova — child  who  still  has  faith  in  inno- 
cence because  you  too  are  innocent — interpret  now  for  us  the 
judgment  of  the  Lord — tell  us  the  gentle  secrets  of  these 
flowers. 

Tova.  The  evil  part  I  cannot  utter. 

Duke.  I  will.  What's  good  I'll  leave  for  you. — As  the 
steam  from  the  blood  of  the  prurient  beast  rises  upward— 
as  upward  the  smell  of  the  passionate  spices  is  mounting — 
what  see  you? 

Tova.  [Gazing  at  the  three  lilies]  The  white  one  folds  its 
blossom  to  protect  itself  against  defilement.  That  is  Swan- 
white's  flower. 

All.  Swanwhite  is  innocent. 

Tova.  The    red    one,   too— the    prince's    lily— closes    its 


60  SWANWHITE 

bead  -hut  the  blue  one,  which  stands  for  the  king,  flings 
wide  its  gorge  to  drink  the  lust-filled  air. 

Duke.   You've  told  it  right!     What  more  is  there  to  see? 

Tova.  I  see  the  red  flower  bend  its  head  in  reverent  love 
before  the  white  one,  while  the  blue  one  writhes  with  envious 

HlL'e. 

Dike.  You've  spoken  true! — For  whom  is  Swanwhite 
then? 

Tova.  For  the  prince,  because  more  pure  is  his  desire, 
and  therefore  stronger,  too. 

Ai,l.  [Except  Swanwhite  and  the  Stepmother]  Swanwhite 
for  the  prince! 

Swanwhite.  [Throwing  herself  into  her  father's  arms]  O, 
father! 

Duke.  Call  back  the  prince!  Let  every  trump  and  bugle 
summon  him.  Hoist  sail  on  every  bark!  But  first  of  all 
— the  spiked  cask  is  for  whom? 
All  remain  silent. 
Duke.  Then  I  will  say  it:  for  the  duchess;  for  the  arch- 
liar  and  bawd! — Know,  evil  woman,  that  though  nothing 
else  be  safe  against  your  tricks,  they  cannot  conquer  love! — 
Go — quick — begone ! 

The  Stepmother  makes  a  gesture  which  for  a  moment 

seems  to  stun  the  Duke. 

Duke.  [Draws  his  sword  and  turns  the  point  of  it  toward 

the  Stepmother,  having  first  seated  Swanwhite  on  his  left 

shoulder]  A-yi,  you  evil  one!    My  pointed  steel  will  outpoint 

all  your  tricks! 

The   Stepmother   withdraws   backward,  dragging  her 
legs  behind  her  like  a  panther. 
Duke.  Now  for  the  prince! 

The  Stepmother  stops  on  the  balcony,  rigid  as  a  statue. 
She  opens  her  mouth  as  if  she  were  pouring  out  venom. 


SWANWHITE  61 

The  peacock  and  tlie  doves  fall  down  dead.  Then  the 
Stepmother  begins  to  swell.  Her  clothes  become 
inflated  to  such  an  extent  that  they  hide  her  head  and 
bust  entirely.  They  seem  to  be  flaming  with  a  pat- 
tern of  interwoven  snakes  and  branches.  The  sun 
is  beginning  to  rise  outside.  The  ceiling  sinks  slowly 
into  the  room,  while  smoke  and  fire  burst  from  the 
fireplace. 

Duke.  [Raising  the  cross-shaped  handle  of  his  sword  to- 
ward the  Stepmother]  Pray,  people,  pray  to  Christ,  our 
Saviour! 

All.  Christ  have  mercy! 

The  ceiling  resumes  its  ordinary  place.     The  smoke  and 
fire  cease.     A  noise  is  heard  outside,  followed  by  the 
hum  of  many  voices. 
Duke.  What  new  event  is  this? 

Swanwhite.  I  know!     I  see! — I  hear  the  water  dripping 
from  his  hair;  I  hear  the  silence  of  his  heart,  the  breath  that 
comes  no  more —     I  see  that  he  is  dead ! 
Duke.  Where  do  you  see — and  whom? 
Swanwhite.  Where? — But  I  see  it! 
Duke.  I  see  nothing. 

Swanwhite.  As  they  must  come,  let  them  come  quick! 
Four  little  girls  enter  with  baskets  out  of  which  they 
scatter  white  lilies  and  hemlock  twigs  over  the  floor. 
After  them  come  four  pages  ringing  silver  bells  of  dif- 
ferent pitch.  Then  comes  a  priest  carrying  a  large 
crucifix.  Then,  the  golden  bier,  with  the  body  of  the 
Prince,  covered  by  a  white  sheet,  on  ichich  rest  white 
and  pink  roses.  His  hair  is  dark  again.  His  face 
is  youthful,  rosy,  and  radiantly  beautiful.  There  is 
a  smile  on  his  lips. 


SWA  N  W  II  I  T  E 

The   harp   begins  to   play.     The  sun   rises   completely. 
Tin    magic   bubble  around  the  Stepmother   bursts, 
and  she  appears  once  more  in  her  customary  shape. 
The  bier  is  placed  in  the  middle  of  the  floor,  so  that  the 

rays  of  the  rising  sun  fall  on  it. 
Swaxwhite  throws  herself  on  her  knees  beside  the  bier 

and  covers  the  Prixce's  face  with  kisses. 
All  present  put  their  hands  to  their  faces  and  weep. 
The  Fisherman  has  entered  behind  the  bier. 

DuKE.  The  brief  tale  tell  us,  fisherman 

Fisherman.  Does  it  not  tell  itself,  my  noble  lord? — The 
young  prince  had  already  crossed  the  strait,  when,  seized  by 
violent  longing  for  his  love,  he  started  to  swim  back,  in  face 
of  tide  and  wave  and  wind — because  his  bark  seemed  rudder- 
less.— I  saw  his  young  head  breast  the  billows,  I  heard  him 
cry  her  name — and  then  his  corpse  was  gently  dropped  upon 
the  white  sand  at  my  feet.  His  hair  had  turned  to  grey  that 
night  when  he  slept  in  the  tower;  sorrow  and  wrath  had 
blanched  his  cheeks;  his  lips  had  lost  their  power  of  smiling. 
— Now,  when  death  o'ertook  him,  beauty  and  youth  came 
with  it.  Like  wreaths  his  darkening  locks  fell  round  his  rosy 
cheeks;  he  smiled — and  see! — is  smiling  still.  The  people 
gathered  on  the  shore,  awed  by  the  gentle  spectacle — and 
man  said  unto  man:  lo,  this  is  love! 

Swanwhite.  [Lying  down  beside  the  body  of  the  Prince] 
He's  dead;  his  heart  will  sing  no  more;  his  eyes  no  longer  will 
light  up  my  life;  his  breath  will  shed  its  dew  on  me  no  more. 
He  smiles,  but  not  toward  me — toward  heaven  he  smiles. 
And  on  his  journey  I  shall  bear  him  company. 

Duke.  Kiss  not  a  dead  man's  lips — there's  poison  in  them! 
Swanwhite.  Sweet  poison  if  it  bring  me  death — that  death 
in  which  I  seek  my  life! 

DuKE.  They  say,  my  child,  the  dead  cannot  gain  union 


SWAN  \Y  II  I  T  E  68 

by  willing  it;  and  what  was  loved  in  life  has  little  worth 
beyond. 

Swanwhite.  And  love?  Should  then  its  power  not  ex- 
tend to  the  other  side  of  death? 

Duke.  Our  wise  men  have  denied  it. 

Swanwhite.  Then  he  must  come  to  me — back  to  this 
earth.     O  gracious  Lord,  please  let  him  out  of  heaven  again! 

Duke.  A  foolish  prayer! 

Swanwhite.  I  cannot  pray — woe's  me!  The  evil  eye  still 
rules  this  place. 

Duke.  You're  thinking  of  the  monster  which  the  sun- 
beams pricked.  The  stake  for  her — let  her  without  delay 
be  burned  alive! 

Swanwhite.  Burn  her? — Alive? — Oh,  no!  Let  her  de- 
part in  peace! 

Duke.  She  must  be  burned  alive!  You,  men,  see  that 
the  pyre  is  raised  close  to  the  shore,  and  let  the  winds  play 
with  her  ashes! 

Swanwhite.  [On  her  knees  before  the  Duke]  No,  no — I 
pray  you,  though  she  was  my  executioner:  have  mercy  on 
her! 

Stepmother.  [Enters,  changed,  freed  from  the  evil  powers 
that  have  held  her  in  their  spell]  Mercy!  Who  spoke  the 
sacred  word?     Who  poured  her  heart  in  prayer  for  me? 

Swanwhite.  I  did — your  daughter — mother! 

Stepmother.  O,  God  in  heaven,  she  called  me  mother! — 
Who  taught  you  that? 

Swanwhite.  Love  did! 

Stepmother.  Then  blessed  be  love  which  can  work  mir- 
acles like  that! — But,  child,  then  it  must  also  have  the  power 
to  make  the  dead  return  out  of  the  darkling  realms  of 
death! — I  cannot  do  it,  having  not  received  the  grace  of 
love.     But  you! 


64  SWAN  WHITE 

>\\  anwhite.  Poor  me — what  can  I  do? 
Si  bfmother.  You  can  forgive,  and  you  can  love —     Well, 
then,  my  little  Lady  Almighty,  you  can  do  anything! — Be 
taught  by  me  who  have  no  power  at  all.     Go,  cry  the  name  of 
your  beloved,  and  put  your  hand  above  his  heart!     Then, 
with  the  help  of  the  Supreme  One — calling  none  but  Him 
for  helper — your  beloved  will  hear  your  voice — if  you  believe! 
Swanwhite.  I  do  believe — I  will  it — and — I  pray  for  it! 
She  goes  up  to  tJie  Prince,  places  one  of  her  hands  over 
his  heart,  and  raises  the  other  toward  the  sky.     Then 
she  bends  down  over  him  and  whispers  something  into 
his  ear.     This  she  repeats  three  times  in  succession. 
At  the  third  whisper  the  Prince  wakes  up.     Swan- 
white   throws   herself  at   his   breast.     All  kneel ,  in 
praise  and  thanksgiving.     Music. 

Curtain. 


SIMOOM 

(SAMUM) 

1890 


CHARACTERS 

Biskra,  an  Arabian  girl 

Yusuf,  her  lover 

Guimard,  a  lieutenant  of  Zouaves 

The  action  taken  place  in  Algeria  at  the  present  time. 


SIMOOM 

The  inside  of  a  marabout,  or  shrine.  In  the  middle  of  the  floor 
stands  a  sarcophagus  forming  the  tomb  of  the  Mohammedan 
saint  (also  called  "marabout")  who  in  his  lifetime  occu- 
pied the  place.  Prayer-rugs  are  scattered  over  the  floor. 
At  the  right  in  the  rear  is  an  ossuary,  or  charnel-house. 

There  is  a  doorway  in  the  middle  of  the  rear  wall.  It  is  closed 
with  a  gate  and  covered  by  a  curtain.  On  both  sides  of  the 
doorway  are  loopholes.  Here  and  there  on  the  floor  are 
seen  little  piles  of  sand.  An  aloe  plaid,  a  few  palm  leaves 
and  some  alfa  grass  are  thrown  together  on  one  spot. 

FIRST    SCENE 

Biskra  enters.  The  hood  of  her  burnous  is  pulled  over  her  head 
so  that  it  almost  covers  her  face.  She  carries  a  guitar  at 
her  back.  Throwing  herself  down  in  a  kneeling  position 
on  one  of  the  rugs,  she  begins  to  pray  with  her  arms  crossed 
over  her  breast.     A  high  wind  is  blowing  outside. 

Biskra.  La  ilaha  ilia  'llah! 

Yusuf.  [Enters  quickly]  The  Simoom  is  coming!  Where  is 
the  Frank? 

Biskra.  He'll  be  here  in  a  moment. 

Yusuf.  Why  didn't  you  stab  him  when  you  had  a  chance? 

Biskra.  Because  he  is  to  do  it  himself.  If  I  were  to  do 
it,  our  whole  tribe  would  be  killed,  for  I  am  known  to  the 

67 


G8  SIMOOM  scene  i 

Franks  as  Ali,  the  guide,  though  they  don't  know  me  as 
IJi^kra,  the  maiden. 

Y i  -i  r.  He  is  to  do  it  himself,  you  say?  How  is  that  to 
happen? 

Biskba.  Don't  you  know  that  the  Simoom  makes  the  brains 
of  the  white  people  dry  as  dates,  so  that  they  have  horrible 
visions  which  disgust  them  with  life  and  cause  them  to  flee 
into  the  great  unknown? 

Yusuf.  I  have  heard  of  such  things,  and  in  the  last  battle 
there  were  six  Franks  who  took  their  own  lives  before  the 
fighting  began.  But  do  not  place  your  trust  in  the  Simoom 
to-day,  for  snow  has  fallen  in  the  mountains,  and  the  storm 
may  be  all  over  in  half  an  hour. — Biskra!  Do  you  still  know 
how  to  hate? 

Biskra.  If  I  know  how  to  hate? — My  hatred  is  boundless 
as  the  desert,  burning  as  the  sun,  and  stronger  than  my  love. 
Every  hour  of  joy  that  has  been  stolen  from  me  since  the 
murder  of  Ali  has  been  stored  up  within  me  like  the  venom 
back  of  a  viper's  tooth,  and  what  the  Simoom  cannot  do,  that 
I  can  do. 

Yusuf.  Well  spoken,  Biskra,  and  the  task  shall  be  yours. 
Ever  since  my  eyes  first  fell  upon  you,  my  own  hatred  has 
been  withering  like  alfa  grass  in  the  autumn.  Take  strength 
from  me  and  become  the  arrow  to  my  bow. 

Biskra.  Embrace  me,  Yusuf,  embrace  me! 

Yusuf.  Not  here,  within  the  presence  of  the  Sainted  one; 
not  now — later,  afterw7ard,  when  you  have  earned  your  reward ! 

Biskra.  You  proud  sheikh!     You  man  of  pride! 

Yusuf.  Yes — the  maiden  who  is  to  carry  my  offspring  un- 
der  her  heart  must  show  herself  worthy  of  the  honour. 

Biskra.  I — no  one  but  I — shall  bear  the  offspring  of 
Yusuf!  I,  Biskra — the  scorned  one,  the  ugly  one,  but  the 
strong  one,  too! 


SCENE  I  M.MOOM 

Yusur.  All  right!  I  am  now  going  to  sleep  beside  the 
spring. — Do  I  need  to  teach  you  more  of  the  secret  arts  which 
you  learned  from  Sidi-Sheikh,  the  great  marabout,  and  which 
you  have  practised  at  fairs  ever  since  you  were  a  child? 

Biskra.  Of  that  there  is  no  need.  I  know  all  the  secrets 
needed  to  scare  the  life  out  of  a  cowardly  Frank. — The 
dastard  who  sneaks  upon  the  enemy  and  sends  the  leaden 
bullet  ahead  of  himself!  I  know  them  all — even  the  art  of 
letting  my  voice  come  out  of  my  belly.  And  what  is  beyond 
my  art.  that  will  be  done  by  the  sun,  for  the  sun  is  on  the 
side  of  Yusuf  and  Biskra. 

Yusuf.  The  sun  is  a  friend  of  the  Moslem,  but  not  to  be 
relied  upon.  You  may  get  burned,  girl!— Take  a  drink  of 
water  first  of  all,  for  I  see  that  your  hands  are  shrivelled, 

and 

He  lifts  up  one  of  the  rugs  and  steps  down  into  a  sort  of 
cellar,  from  which  he  brings  back  a  bowl  filled  with 
water:  this  he  hands  to  Biskra. 

Biskra.  [Raising  the  bowl  to  her  mouth]  And  my  eyes  are 
already  beginning  to  see  red — my  lungs  are  parching — I  hear 
— I  hear — do  you  see  how  the  sand  is  sifting  through  the  roof 
— the  strings  of  my  guitar  are  crooning — the  Simoom  is  here ! 
But  the  Frank  is  not! 

Yusuf.  Come  down  here,  Biskra,  and  let  the  Frank  die 
by  himself. 

Biskra.  First  hell,  and  then  death!  Do  you  think  I'll 
weaken?  [Pours  the  water  on  one  of  the  sand  piles]  I'll  water 
the  sand,  so  that  revenge  may  grow  out  of  it,  and  I'll  dry 
up  my  heart.  Grow,  O  hatred!  Burn,  O  sun!  Smother, 
O  wind! 

Yusuf.  Hail  to  you,  mother  of  Ben  Yusuf — for  you  are  to 
bear  the  son  of  Yusuf,  the  avenger — you! 

The  wind  is  increasing.     The  curtain   in  front  of  the 


70  SIMOOM  scene  ii 

door  begins  to  flap.     A  red  glimmer  lights  up  the  room, 
but  changes  into  yellow  during  the  ensuing  scene. 
Biskra.  The  Frank  is  coming,  and — the  Simoom  is  here! — 
Go! 

Yusuf.  In  half  an  hour  you  shall  see  me  again.  [Point- 
ing toward  a  sand  pile]  There  is  your  hour-glass.  Heaven 
itself  is  measuring  out  the  time  for  the  hell  of  the  infidels! 

[Goes  down  into  the  cellar. 


SECOND    SCENE 

Biskra.     Guimard  enters  looking  very  pale;  he  stumbles,  his 
mind  is  confused,  and  he  speaks  in  a  low  voice. 

Guimard.  The  Simoom  is  here! — What  do  you  think  has 
become  of  my  men? 

Biskra.  I  led  them  west  to  east. 

Guimard.  West — to  east! — Let  me  see! — That's  straight 
east — and  west! — Oh,  put  me  on  a  chair  and  give  me  some 
water! 

Biskra.  [Leads  Guimard  to  one  of  the  sand  piles  arid  makes 
him  lie  down  on  the  floor  with  his  feet  on  the  sand]  Are  you  com- 
fortable now? 

Guimard.  [Staring  at  her]  I  feel  all  twisted  up.  Put  some- 
thing under  my  head. 

Biskra.  [Piling  the  sand  higher  under  his  feet]  There's  a 
pillow  for  your  head. 

Guimard.  Head?  Why,  my  feet  are  down  there —  Isn't 
that  my  feet? 

Biskra.  Of  course! 

( 1 1  imakd.  I  thought  so.  Give  me  a  stool  now — under  my 
head. 


scene  ii  SIMOOM  71 

Biskra.  [Pulls  out  the  aloe  plant  and  pushes  it  under  Gui- 
mard's  legs]  There's  a  stool  for  you. 

Guimard.  And  then  water! — Water! 

Biskra.  [Fills  the  empty  bowl  with  sand  and  hands  ii  to 
Guimard]  Drink  while  it's  cold. 

Guimard.  [Putting  his  lips  to  the  bowl]  It  is  cold — and  yet 
it  does  not  still  my  thirst!  I  cannot  drink  it — I  abhor  water 
— take  it  away! 

Biskra.  There's  the  dog  that  bit  you! 

Guimard.  What  dog?     I  have  never  been  bitten  by  a  dog. 

Biskra.  The  Simoom  has  shrivelled  up  your  memory — be- 
ware the  delusions  of  the  Simoom!  Don't  you  remember  the 
mad  greyhound  that  bit  you  during  the  last  hunt  at  Bab- 
el-Wad? 

Guimard.  The  hunt  at  Bab-el-Wad?  That's  right!— Was 
it  a  beaver-coloured ? 

Biskra.  Bitch?  Yes. — There  you  see.  And  she  bit  you 
in  the  calf.     Can't  you  feel  the  sting  of  the  wound? 

Guimard.  [Reaches  out  a  hand  to  feel  his  calf  and  pricks 
himself  on  the  aloe]  Yes,  I  can  feel  it. — Water!     Water! 

Biskra.  [Handing  him  the  sand-filled  bowl]  Drink,  drink! 

Guimard.  No,  I  cannot!  Holy  Mother  of  God — I  have 
rabies ! 

Biskra.  Don't  be  afraid!  I  shall  cure  you,  and  drive  out 
the  demon  by  the  help  of  music,  which  is  all-powerful. 
Listen ! 

Guimard.  [Screaming]  Ali!  Ali!  No  music;  I  can't  stand 
it!     And  how  could  it  help  me? 

Biskra.  If  music  can  tame  the  treacherous  spirit  of  the 
snake,  don't  you  think  it  may  conquer  that  of  a  mad  dog? 
Listen!  [She  sings  and  accompanies  herself  on  the  guitar] 
Biskra-biskra,  Biskra-biskra,  Biskra-biskra!  Simoom!  Si- 
moom! 


SIMOOM  SCENE  II 

YUSUF.  [Responding  from  below]  Simoom!     Simoom! 

Guimard.  What  is  that  you  are  singing,  Ali? 

Biskra.  Have  I  been  singing?  Look  here — now  I'll  put 
a  palm-leaf  in  my  mouth.  [She  puts  a  piece  of  leaf  between 
lu  r  teeth;  the  song  seems  to  be  coming  from  above]  Biskra- 
biskra,  Biskra-biskra,  Biskra-biskra! 

Yusuf.  [From  below]  Simoom!     Simoom! 

Guimard.  What  an  infernal  jugglery! 

Biskra.  Now  I'll  sing! 

Biskra  and  Yusuf.  [Together]  Biskra-biskra,  Biskra-bis- 
kra, Biskra-biskra!     Simoom! 

GuiMABD.  [Rising]  What  are  you,  you  devil  who  are  sing- 
ing with  two  voices?     Are  you  man  or  woman?     Or  both? 

Biskra.  I  am  Ali,  the  guide.  You  don't  recognise  me 
because  your  senses  are  confused.  But  if  you  want  to  be 
saved  from  the  tricks  played  by  sight  and  thought,  you  must 
believe  in  me — believe  what  I  say  and  do  what  I  tell  you. 

(iriMARD.  You  don't  need  to  ask  me,  for  I  find  everything 
to  be  as  you  say  it  is. 

Biskra.  There  you  see,  you  worshipper  of  idols! 

Guimard.  I,  a  worshipper  of  idols? 

Biskra.  Yes,  take  out  the  idol  you  carry  on  your  breast. 
Guimard  takes  out  a  locket. 

Biskra.  Trample  on  it  now,  and  then  call  on  the  only 
God,  the  Merciful  One,  the  Compassionate  One! 

Guimard.  [Hesitating]  Saint  Edward— my  patron  saint? 

BiSKBA.  Can  he  protect  you?     Can  he? 

Guimabd.  No,  he  cannot! — [Waking  up]  Yes,  he  can! 

Biskra.  Let  us  see! 

She  opens  the  gate;  the  curtain  flaps  and  the  grass  on 
the  floor  moves. 

Guimabd.  [Covering  his  mouth]  Close  the  door! 

Biskra.  Tlirow  down  the  idol! 


scene  ii  SIMOOM  78 

Guimard.  No,  I  cannot. 

Biskra.  Do  you  see?  The  Simoom  does  not  bend  a  liair 
on  me,  but  you,  the  infidel  one,  are  killed  by  it!  Throw  down 
the  idol! 

Guimard.  [Throics  the  locket  on  the  floor]  Water!     I  die! 

Biskra.  Pray  to  the  Only  One,  the  Merciful  and  Compas- 
sionate One! 

Guimard.  How  am  I  to  pray? 

Biskra.  Repeat  after  me. 

Guimard.  Speak  on! 

Biskra.  There  is  only  one  God:  there  is  no  other  God  but 
He,  the  Merciful,  the  Compassionate  One! 

Guimard.  "There  is  only  one  God:  there  is  no  other  God 
but  He,  the  Merciful,  the  Compassionate  One." 

Biskra.  Lie  down  on  the  floor. 

Guimard  lies  down  unwillingly. 

Biskra.  What  do  you  hear? 

Guimard.  I  hear  the  murmuring  of  a  spring. 

Biskra.  There  you  see!  God  is  one,  and  there  is  no  other 
God  but  He,  the  Merciful  and  Compassionate  One! — What 
do  you  see? 

Guimard.  I  can  hear  a  spring  murmur — I  can  see  the 
light  of  a  lamp — in  a  window  with  green  shutters — on  a  white 
street 

Biskra.  Who  is  sitting  at  the  window? 

Guimard.  My  wife — Elise! 

Biskra.  Who  is  standing  behind  the  curtain  with  his  arm 
around  her  neck? 

Guimard.  That's  my  son,  George. 

Biskra.  How  old  is  your  son? 

Guimard.  Four  years  on  the  day  of  Saint  Nicholas. 

Biskra.  And  he  can  already  stand  behind  the  curtain 
with  his  arm  around  the  neck  of  another  man's  wife? 


74  SIMOOM  scene  ii 

Guimard.  No,  he  cannot — but  it  is  he! 

Biskra.  Four  years  old,  you  say,  and  he  has  a  blond 
mustache? 

Guimard.  A  blond  mustache,  you  say? — Oh,  that's — my 
friend  Jules. 

Biskra.  Who  is  standing  behind  the  curtain  with  his  arm 
around  your  wife's  neck? 

Guimard.  Oh,  you  devil! 

Biskra.  Do  you  see  your  son? 

Guimard.  No,  I  don't  see  him  any  longer. 

Biskra.  [Imitates  the  tolling  of  bells  on  the  guitar]  What  do 
you  see  now? 

Guimard.  I  see  bells  ringing — I  taste  dead  bodies — their 
smell  in  my  mouth  is  like  rancid  butter — faugh! 

Biskra.  Can't  you  hear  the  priest  chanting  the  service 
for  a  dead  child? 

Guimard.  Wait! — I  cannot  hear —  [Wistfully]  But  do  you 
want  me  to? — There! — I  can  hear  it! 

Biskra.  Do  you  see  the  wreath  on  the  coffin  they  are 
carrying? 

Guimard.  Yes 


Biskra.  There  are  violet  ribbons  on  it — and  there  are  let- 
ters printed  in  silver — "Farewell,  my  darling  George — from 
your  father." 

Guimard.  Yes,  that's  it!  [He  begins  to  cry]  My  George! 
O  George,  my  darling  boy! — Elise — wife — can't  you  con- 
sole me? — Oh,  help  me!  [He  is  groping  around]  Elise,  where 
are  you?  Have  you  left  me?  Answer!  Call  out  the  name 
of  your  love! 

A  Voice.  [Coming  from  the  roof]  Jules!     Jules! 

Guimard.  Jules!  But  my  name  is — what  is  my  name? 
It  i-  Charles!     And  she  is  calling  Jules!     Elise — my  beloved 


scene  ii  SIMOOM  75 

wife — answer  me — for  your  spirit  is  here — I  can  feel  it — and 

you  promised  never  to  love  anybody  else 

The  Voice  is  heard  laughing. 

Gttimard.  Who  is  laughing? 

Biskra.  Elise — your  wife. 

Guimard.  Oh,  kill  me!     I  don't  want  to  live  any  longer! 
Life  sickens  me  like  sauerkraut  at  Saint-Doux —    You  there — 
do  you  know  what  Saint-Doux  is?     Lard!  [He  tries  to  spit] 
Not  a  drop  of  saliva  left! — Water — water — or  I'll  bite  you! 
The  wind  outside  has  risen  to  a  full  storm. 

Biskra.  [Puts  her  hand  to  her  mouth  and  coughs]  Now  you 
are  dying,  Frank!  Write  down  your  last  wishes  while  there 
is  still  time —     Where  is  your  note-book? 

Guimard.  [Takes  out  a  note-book  and  a  pencil]  What  am  I 
to  write? 

Biskra.  When  a  man  is  to  die,  he  thinks  of  his  wife — and 
his  child! 

Guimard.  [Writes]  "Elise — I  curse  you!  Simoom — I 
die " 

Biskra.  And  then  sign  it,  or  it  will  not  be  valid  as  a  tes- 
tament. 

Guimard.  What  shall  I  sign? 

Biskra.  Write:  La  ilaha  ilia  'llah. 

Guimard.  [Writing]  It  is  written. — And  can  I  die  now? 

Biskra.  Now  you  can  die — like  a  craven  soldier  who  has 
deserted  his  people!  And  I  am  sure  you'll  get  a  handsome 
burial  from  the  jackals  that  will  chant  the  funeral  hymn  over 
your  corpse.  [She  drums  the  signal  for  attack  on  the  guitar]  Can 
you  hear  the  drums — the  attack  has  begun — on  the  Faith- 
ful, who  have  the  sun  and  the  Simoom  on  their  side — they 
are  now  advancing — from  their  hiding-places —  [She  makes 
a  rattling  noise  on  the  guitar]  The  Franks  are  firing  along  the 


76  SI  M  O  O  M  scene  ir 

whole  line — they  have  no  chance  to  load  again — the  Arabs 
an-  Hriiii,'  at  their  leisure — the  Franks  are  flying! 
(iriMAHD.  [Rising]  The  Franks  never  flee! 
Biskha.  The  Franks  will  flee  when  they  hear  the  call  to 
retreat. 

She  blows  the  signal  for  "retreat''''  on  a  flute  which  she 
has  produced  from  under  her  burnoose. 
Guimard.  They  are  retreating — that's  the  signal — and  I 
am  here —  [He  tears  off  his  epaulets]  I  am  dead ! 

[He  falls  to  the  ground. 
Biskra.  Yes,  you  are  dead! — And  you  don't  know  that 
you  have  been  dead  a  long  time. 

[She  goes  to  the  ossuary  and  takes  from  it  a  human  skull. 
Guimard.  Have  I  been  dead? 

[He  feels  his  face  with  his  hands. 
Biskra.  Long!    Long! — Look   at  yourself   in   the   mirror 
here!  [She  holds  up  the  shdl  before  him. 

Guimard.  Ah!     That's  me! 

Biskra.  Can't  you  see  your  own  high  cheek-bones?  Can't 
you  see  the  eyes  that  the  vultures  have  picked  out?  Don't 
you  know  that  gap  on  the  right  side  of  the  jaw  where  you  had 
a  tooth  pulled?  Can't  you  see  the  hollow  in  the  chin  where 
grew  the  beard  that  your  Elise  was  fond  of  stroking?  Can't 
you  see  where  used  to  be  the  ear  that  your  George  kissed  at 
tli<-  breakfast-table?  Can't  you  see  the  mark  of  the  axe — 
here  in  the  neck — which  the  executioner  made  when  he  cut 

<>1F  the  deserter's  head 

Guimard.  nho  has  been  watching  her  movements  and 
listening  to  tier  words  with  evident  horror,  sinks  down 
dead. 

Biskra.  [Who  has  been  kneeling,  feels  his  pulse;  then  she 
rites   and  sings]  Simoom!     Simoom!  [She  opens  both  gates; 


scene  in  SIM  O  O  M  77 

the  curtain  flutters  like  a  banner  in  the  wind;  she  puts  her  hand 
up  to  her  mouth  and  falls  over  backward,  crying]  Yusuf ! 


THIRD    SCENE 
Biskra.  Guimard  (dead).     Yusuf  comes  out  of  the  cellar. 

Yusuf.  [Having  examined  the  body  of  Guimard,  he  looks 
for  Biskra]  Biskra!  [lie  discovers  her  and  takes  her  up  in 
his  arms]  Are  you  alive? 

Biskra.  Is  the  Frank  dead? 

Yusuf.  If  he  is  not,  he  will  be.     Simoom!     Simoom! 

Biskra.  Then  I  live!     But  give  me  some  water! 

Yusuf.  [Carrying  her  toward  the  cellar]  Here  it  is! — And 
now  Yusuf  is  yours! 

Biskra.  And  Biskra  will  be  your  son's  mother,  O  Yusuf, 
great  Yusuf! 

Yusuf.  My  strong  Biskra!     Stronger  than  the  Simoom! 

Curtain. 


DEBIT  AND   CREDIT 

(DEBET  OCH  KREDIT) 

AN  ACT 
1893 


CHARACTERS 

Axel,  Doctor  of  Philosophy  and  African  explorer 

Thure,  his  brother,  a  gardener 

Anna,  the  wife  of  Thure 

Miss  Cecilia 

The  Fiance  of  Cecilia 

Lindgren,  Doctor  of  Philosophy  and  former  school-teacher 

Miss  Marie 

The  Court  Chamberlain 

The  Waiter 


DEBIT  AND   CREDIT 

A  well-furnished  hotel  room.     There  are  doors  on  both  sides. 

FIRST    SCENE 
Thure  and  his  Wife. 

Thure.  There's  some  style  to  this  room,  isn't  there?  But 
then  the  fellow  who  lives  here  is  stylish,  too. 

Wife.  Yes,  so  I  understand.  Of  course,  I've  never  seen 
your  brother,  but  I've  heard  a  whole  lot. 

Thure.  Oh,  gossip!  My  brother,  the  doctor,  has  gone 
right  across  Africa,  and  that's  something  everybody  can't 
do.  So  it  doesn't  matter  how  many  drinks  he  took  as  a 
young  chap 

Wife.  Yes,  your  brother,  the  doctor!  Who  is  nothing 
but  a  school-teacher,  for  that  matter 

Thure.  No,  he's  a  doctor  of  philosophy,  I  tell  you 


Wife.  Well,  that's  nothing  but  one  who  teaches.  And 
that's  just  what  my  brother  is  doing  in  the  school  at  Aby. 

Thure.  Your  brother  is  all  right,  but  he  is  nothing  but  a 
public-school  teacher,  and  that's  not  the  same  as  a  doctor  of 
philosophy — which  isn't  a  boast  either. 

Wife.  Well,  no  matter  what  he  is  or  what  you  call  him, 
he  has  cost  us  a  whole  lot. 

Thure.  Of  course  it  has  been  rather  costly,  but  then  he 
has  brought  us  a  lot  of  pleasure,  too. 

81 


82  DEBIT  AND   CREDIT       scene  i 

Wife.  Fine  pleasures!  When  we've  got  to  lose  house  and 
home  for  his  sake! 

Thure.  That's  so — but  then  we  don't  know  yet  if  his 
slip-up  on  the  loan  had  some  kind  of  cause  that  he  couldn't 
help.  I  guess  it  isn't  so  easy  to  send  registered  letters  from 
darkest  Africa. 

Wife.  Whether  he  has  any  excuses  or  not  doesn't  change 
the  matter  a  bit.  But  if  he  wants  to  do  something  for  us — 
it's  nothing  more  than  he  owes  us. 

Thure.  Well,  we'll  see,  we'll  see! — Anyhow,  have  you 
heard  they've  already  given  him  four  decorations? 

Wife.  Well,  that  doesn't  help  us  any.  I  guess  it'll  only 
make  him  a  little  more  stuck-up.  Oh,  no,  it'll  be  some  time 
before  I  get  over  that  the  sheriff  had  to  come  down  on  us 
with  the  papers — and  bring  in  other  people  as  witnesses — 
and  then — the  auction— and  all  the  neighbours  coming  in  and 
turning  all  we  had  upside  down.  And  do  you  know  what 
made  me  sorer  than  all  the  rest? 

Thure.  The  black 

Wife.  Yes,  it  was  that  my  sister-in-law  should  bid  in  my 
black  silk  dress  for  fifteen  crowns.  Think  of  it — fifteen 
crowns ! 

Thure.  You  just  wait — just  wait  a  little!  We  might  get 
you  a  new  silk  dress 

W'ife.  [Weeping]  But  it'll  never  be  the  same  one — the  one 
my  sister-in-law  bid  in. 

Thure.  We'll  get  another  one  then! — Now,  just  look  at 
that  gorgeous  hat  over  there!  I  guess  it  must  be  one  of  those 
royal  chamberlains  who's  talking  with  Axel  now. 

Wife.  What  do  I  care  about  that! 

Thure.  Why,  don't  you  think  it's  fun  that  a  fellow  who 
has  tin-  same  name  as  you  and  I  gets  to  be  so  respected  that 
the  King's  own  household  people  have  to  visit  him?     If  I 


scene  i        DEBIT   AND   CREDIT  83 

remember  right,  you  were  happy  for  a  whole  fortnight  when 
your  brother,  the  school-teacher,  had  been  asked  to  dine  at 
the  bishop's. 

Wife.  I  can't  remember  anything  of  the  kind. 

Thure.  Of  course  you  can't ! 

Wife.  But  I  do  remember  the  fifteenth  of  March,  when  we 
had  to  leave  our  place  for  his  sake,  and  we  hadn't  been  mar- 
ried more  than  two  years,  and  I  had  to  carry  away  the  child 
on  my  own  arm —  Oh!— and  then,  when  the  steamer  came 
with  all  the  passengers  on  board  just  as  we  had  to  get  out — 
all  the  cocked  hats  in  the  world  can't  make  me  forget  that! 
And,  for  that  matter,  what  do  you  think  a  royal  chamberlain 
cares  about  a  plain  gardener  and  his  wife  when  they've  just 
been  turned  out  of  house  and  home? 

Thure.  Look  here!  What  do  you  think  this  is?  Look 
at  all  his  decorations !— Look  at  this  one,  will  you! 

He  takes  an  order  out  of  its  case,  holds  it  in  the  palm  of 
his  hand,  and  pats  it  as  if  it  were  a  living  thing. 

Wife.  Oh,  that  silly  stuff! 

Thure.  Don't  you  say  anything  against  them,  for  you 
never  can  tell  where  you'll  end.  The  gardener  at  Staring  was 
made  a  director  and  a  knight  on  the  same  day. 

Wife.  Well,  what  does  that  help  us? 

Thure.  No,  of  course  not — it  doesn't  help  us — but  these 
things  here  [pointing  to  the  orders]  may  help  us  a  whole  lot  in 
getting  another  place. — However,  I  think  we've  waited  quite 
a  while  now,  so  we'd  better  sit  down  and  make  ourselves  at 
home.     Let  me  help  you  off  with  your  coat — come  on  now ! 

Wife.  [After  a  slight  resistance]  So  you  think  we're  going 
to  be  welcome,  then?  I  have  a  feeling  that  our  stay  here 
won't  last  very  long. 

Thure.  Tut,  tut!  And  I  think  we're  going  to  have  a  good 
dinner,  too,  if  I  know  Axel   right.     If  he  only  knew  that 


Si  DEBITAND   CREDIT     scene  hi 

we're  here—  But  now  you'll  see!  [He  presses  a  button  and  a 
Wattes  enters]  What  do  you  want — a  sandwich,  perhaps? 
[To  tin  Waiter]  Bring  us  some  sandwiches  and  beer. — Wait 
a  moment!  Get  a  drink  for  me — the  real  stuff,  you  know! 
[The  Waiter  goes  out]  You've  got  to  take  care  of  yourself, 
don't  you  know. 

SECOND    SCENE 

Thure  and  his  Wife.     Axel.     The  Chamberlain. 

Axel.  [To  the  Chamberlain]  At  five,  then — in  full  dress, 
I  suppose? 

Chamberlain.  And  your  orders! 

Axel.  Is  it  necessary? 

Chamberlain.  Absolutely  necessary,  if  you  don't  want 
to  seem  rude,  and  that's  something  which  you,  as  a  democrat, 
want  least  of  all.     Good-bye,  doctor! 

Axel.  Good-bye. 

In  leaving,  the  Chamberlain  bows  slightly  to  Thure 
and  his  Wife,  neither  of  whom  returns  the  salute 

THIRD    SCENE 

Axel.     Thure  and  his  Wife. 

Axel.  Oh,  is  that  you,  old  boy? — It  seems  an  eternity 
since  I  saw  you  last.  And  this  is  your  wife? — Glad  to  see 
you ! 

Thure.  Thanks,  brother!  And  I  wish  you  a  happy  re- 
t  urn  after  your  long  trip. 

Axel.  Yes,  that  was  something  of  a  trip —  I  suppose  you 
have  read  about  it  in  the  papers 


scene  iii      DEBIT   AND   CREDIT  85 

Thube.  Oh,  yes,  I've  read  all  about  it.  [Pause]  And  then 
father  sent  you  his  regards. 

Axel.  Oh,  is  he  still  sore  at  me? 

Thure.  Well,  you  know  the  old  man  and  his  ways.  If 
only  you  hadn't  been  a  member  of  that  expedition,  you  know, 
he  would  have  thought  it  one  of  the  seven  wonders  of  tin- 
world.  But  as  you  were  along,  of  course,  it  was  nothing 
but  humbug. 

Axel.  So  he's  just  the  same  as  ever!  Simply  because  I 
am  his  son,  nothing  I  ever  do  can  be  of  any  value.  It  means 
he  can't  think  very  much  of  himself  either. — Well,  so  much 
for  that!     And  how  are  you  getting  along  nowadays? 

Thure.  Not  very  well,  exactly!  There's  that  old  loan 
from  the  bank,  you  know 

Axel.  Yes,  that's  right!     Well,  what  happened  to  it? 

Thure.  Oh,  what  happened  was  that  I  had  to  pay  it. 

Axel.  That's  too  bad!  But  we'll  settle  the  matter  as 
soon  as  we  have  a  chance. 

The  Waiter  comes  in  with  Thure's  order  on  a  tray. 

Axel.  What's  that? 

Thure.  Oh,  it  was  only  me  who  took  the  liberty  of  order- 
ing a  couple  of  sandwiches 

Axel.  Right  you  were!  But  I  think  we  ought  to  have 
some  wine,  so  I  could  drink  the  health  of  my  sister-in-law, 
as  I  couldn't  get  to  the  wedding. 

Thure.  Oh,  no — not  for  us!  Not  so  early  in  the  morn- 
ing!    Thanks  very  much! 

Axel.  [Signals  to  the  Waiter,  who  goes  out]  I  should  have 
asked  you  to  stay  for  dinner,  but  I  have  to  go  out  myself. 
Can  you  guess  where  I  am  going? 

Thure.  You  don't  mean  to  say  you're  going  to  the  Palace? 

Axel.  Exactly — I  am  asked  to  meet  the  Monarch  himself. 


86  DEBIT  AND   CREDIT     scene  m 

Thure.  Lord  preserve  us! — What  do  you  think  of  that, 
Anna? 

His  Wife  turns  and  twists  on  her  chair  as  if  in  torment, 
quite  tinable  to  answer. 

Axel.  I  suppose  the  old  man  will  turn  republican  after 
this,  when  he  hears  that  His  Majesty  cares  to  associate  with 
me. 

Thure.  See  here,  Axel — you'll  have  to  pardon  me  for  get- 
ting back  to  something  that's  not  very  pleasant — but  it  has 
to  be  settled. 

Axel.  Is  it  that  blessed  old  loan? 

Thure.  Yes,  but  it  isn't  only  that.  To  put  it  plain — 
we've  had  to  stand  an  execution  for  your  sake,  and  now  we're 
absolutely  cleaned  out. 

Axel.  That's  a  fine  state  of  affairs !  But  why  in  the  world 
didn't  you  get  the  loan  renewed? 

Thure.  Well,  that's  it!  How  was  I  to  get  any  new  sure- 
ties when  you  were  away? 

Axel.  Couldn't  you  go  to  my  friends? 

Thure.  I  did.  And  the  result  was — what  it  was.  Can 
you  help  us  out  now? 

Axel.  How  am  I  going  to  help  you  now?  Now  when  all 
my  creditors  are  getting  after  me?  And  it  won't  do  for  me 
to  start  borrowing  when  they  are  just  about  to  make  a  position 
for  me.  There's  nothing  that  hurts  you  more  than  to  bor- 
row money.  Just  wait  a  little  while,  and  we'll  get  it  all 
straightened  out. 

Thure.  If  we're  to  wait,  then  everything's  up  with  us. 
Thia  is  just  the  time  to  get  hold  of  a  garden — this  is  the  time 
\>>  -tart  digging  and  sowing,  if  you  are  to  get  anything  up  in 
time-.     Can't  you  get  a  place  for  us? 

Axel.  Where  am  I  to  get  hold  of  a  garden? 


scene  in     DEBIT  AND   CREDIT  87 

Thure.  Among  your  friends. 

Axel.  My  friends  keep  no  gardens.  Now,  don't  you 
hamper  me  when  I  try  to  get  up  on  firm  ground!  When  I 
am  there  I'll  pull  you  up,  too. 

Thure.  [To  his  Wife]  He  doesn't  want  to  help  us,  Anna! 

Axel.  I  cannot — not  this  moment!  Do  you  think  it  rea- 
sonable that  I,  who  am  seeking  a  job  myself,  should  have  to 
seek  one  for  you,  too?  What  would  people  be  saying,  do  you 
think?  "There,  now,"  they  would  say,  "we've  got  not  only 
him  but  his  relatives  to  look  after!"  And  then  they  would 
drop  me  entirely. 

Thure.  [Looks  at  his  watch;  then  to  his  wife]  We've  got 
to  go. 

Axel.  Why  must  you  go  so  soon? 

Thure.  We  have  to  take  the  child  to  a  doctor. 

Axel.  For  the  Lord's  sake,  have  you  a  child,  too? 

Wife.  Yes,  we  have.  And  a  sick  child,  which  lost  its 
health  when  we  had  to  move  out  into  the  kitchen  so  that  the 
auction  could  be  held. 

Axel.  And  all  this  for  my  sake!  It's  enough  to  drive  me 
crazy!  For  my  sake!  So  that  I  might  become  a  famous 
man! — And  what  is  there  I  can  do  for  you? — Do  you  think 
it  would  have  been  better  if  I  had  stayed  at  home? — No, 
worse — for  then  I  should  have  been  nothing  but  a  poor 
teacher,  who  certainly  could  not  have  been  of  any  use  to  you 
whatever. — Listen,  now!  You  go  to  the  doctor,  but  come 
back  here  after  a  while.  In  the  meantime  I'll  think  out 
something. 

Thure.  [To  his  Wife]  Do  you  see  now,  that  he  wants  to 
help  us? 

Wife.  Yes,  but  can  he  do  it?     That's  the  question. 

Thure.  He  can  do  anything  he  wants. 

Axel.  Don't  rely  too  much  on  it — or  the  last  state  may 


88  DEBIT   AND   CREDIT      scene iv 

prove  worse  than  the  first. — Oh,  merciful  heavens,  to  think 
that  you  have  a  siek  child,  too!     And  for  my  sake! 

Thube.  Oh,  I  guess  it  isn't  quite  as  bad  as  it  sounds. 

Wife.  Yes,  so  you  say,  who  don't  know  anything  about 
it 

THUBE.  Well,  Axel,  we'll  see  you  later  then. 
Lindgren  appears  in  tlie  doorway. 

Wife.  [To  Thure]  Did  you  notice  he  didn't  introduce  us 
— to  the  chamberlain? 

Thure.  Oh,  shucks,  what  good  would  that  have  been? 

[They  go  out. 

FOURTH    SCENE 

Axel.  Lindgren,    who    is   shabbily   dressed,    unshaved,    ap- 
parently fond  of  drinking,  and  looking  as  if  he  had  just 
got  out  of  bed. 
Axel  is  startled  for  a  moment  at  the  sight  of  Lindgren. 
Lindgren.  You  don't  recognise  me? 

Axel.  Yes,  now  I  do.     But  you  have  changed  a  great 
deal. 
Lindgren.  Oh,  you  think  so? 
Axel.  Yes,  I  do,  and  I  am  surprised  to  find  that  these 

years  can  have  had  such  an  effect 

Lindgren.  Three  years  may  be  pretty  long. — And  you 
don't  ask  me  to  sit  down? 

Axel.  Please — but  I  am  rather  in  a  hurry. 
Lindgren.  You  have  always  been  in  a  hurry. 

[He  sits  down;  pause. 
Axel.  Why  don't  you  say  something  unpleasant? 
Lindgren.  It's  coming,  it's  coming! 

[He  wipes  his  spectacles;  pause. 
Axel.  How  much  do  you  need? 


scene  iv      DEBIT  AND   CREDIT  89 

Lindgren.  Three  hundred  and  fifty. 

Axel.  I  haven't  got  it,  and  I  can't  get  it. 

Lindgren.  Oh,  sure! — You  don't  mind  if  I  help  myself 
to  a  few  drops? 

He  pours  out  a  drink  from  the  bottle  brought  by  the 
Waiter  for  Thure. 

Axel.  Won't  you  have  a  glass  of  wine  with  me  instead? 

Lindgren.  No — why? 

Axel.  Because  it  looks  bad  to  be  swilling  whisky  like 
that. 

Lindgren.  How  very  proper  you  have  become! 

Axel.  Not  at  all,  but  it  hurts  my  reputation  and  my 
credit. 

Lindgren.  Oh,  you  have  credit?  Then  you  can  also  give 
me  a  lift,  after  having  brought  me  down. 

Axel.  That  is  to  say:  you  are  making  demands? 

Lindgren.  I  am  only  reminding  you  that  I  am  one  of  your 
victims. 

Axel.  Then,  because  of  the  gratitude  I  owe  you,  I  shall  bring 
these  facts  back  to  your  mind:  that  you  helped  me  through 
the  university  at  a  time  when  you  had  plenty  of  money;  that 
you  helped  to  get  my  thesis  printed 

Lindgren.  That  I  taught  you  the  methods  which  deter- 
mined your  scientific  career;  that  I,  who  then  was  as  straight 
as  anybody,  exercised  a  favourable  influence  on  your  slov- 
enly tendencies;  that,  in  a  word,  I  made  you  what  you  are; 
and  that,  finally,  when  I  applied  for  an  appropriation  to  un- 
dertake this  expedition,  you  stepped  in  and  took  it. 

Axel.  No,  I  got  it.  Because  I,  and  not  you,  was  held  to 
be  the  man  for  the  task. 

Lindgren.  And  that  settled  me !  Thus,  one  shall  be  taken, 
and  the  other  left! — Do  you  think  that  was  treating  me 
fairlv? 


90  DEBIT  AND   CREDIT      scene  iv 

Axel.  It  was  what  the  world  calls  "ungrateful,"  but  the 
task  was  achieved,  and  by  it  science  was  enriched,  the  honour 
of  our  country  upheld,  and  new  regions  opened  for  the  use  of 
coming  generations. 

Lindgren.  Here's  to  you! — You  have  had  a  lot  of  ora- 
torical practice —  But  have  you  any  idea  how  unpleasant  it 
feels  to  play  the  part  of  one  used  up  and  cast  off? 

Axel.  I  imagine  it  must  feel  very  much  like  being  con- 
scious of  ingratitude,  and  I  can  only  congratulate  you  at 
not  finding  yourself  in  a  position  as  unpleasant  as  my  own. — 
But  let  us  return  to  reality.     What  can  I  do  for  you? 

Lindgren.  What  do  you  think? 

Axel.  For  the  moment — nothing. 

Llndgren.  And  in  the  next  moment  you  are  gone  again. 
Which  means  that  this  would  be  the  last  I  saw  of  you. 

[He  pours  out  another  drink. 

Axel.  Will  you  do  me  the  favour  of  not  finishing  the  bot- 
tle?    I  don't  want  the  servants  to  suspect  me  of  it. 

Lindgren.  Oh,  go  to  hell ! 

Axel.  You  don't  think  it's  pleasant  for  me  to  have  to  call 
you  down  like  this,  do  you? 

Lindgren.  Say — do  you  want  to  get  me  a  ticket  for  the 
banquet  to-night? 

Axel.  I  am  sorry  to  say  that  I  don't  think  you  would  be 
admitted. 

Lindgren.  Because 

Axel.  You  are  drunk! 

Lindgren.  Thanks,  old  man! — Well,  will  you  let  me  have 
B  look  at  your  botanical  specimens,  then? 

Axel.  No,  I  am  going  to  describe  them  myself  for  the 
Academy. 

LtNDGREN.  How  about  your  ethnographical  stuff? 

Axel.  No,  that's  not  my  own. 


scene  iv      DEBIT   AND   CREDIT  91 

Lindgren.  Will  you — let  me  have  twenty-five  crowns? 

Axel.  As  I  haven't  more  than  twenty  myself,  I  can  only 
give  you  ten. 

Lindgren.  Rotten! 

Axel.  Thus  stand  the  affairs  of  the  man  everybody  envies. 
Do  you  think  there  is  anybody  in  whose  company  I  might 
feel  happy?  Not  one!  Those  that  are  still  down  hate  me 
for  climbing  up,  and  those  already  up  fear  one  coming  from 
below. 

Lindgren.  Yes,  you  are  very  unfortunate! 

Axel.  I  am!  And  I  can  tell  you  that  after  my  experience 
during  the  last  half-hour,  I  wouldn't  mind  changing  place 
with  you.  What  a  peaceful,  unassailable  position  he  holds 
who  has  nothing  to  lose!  What  a  lot  of  interest  and  sym- 
pathy those  that  are  obscure  and  misunderstood  and  over- 
looked always  arouse!  You  have  only  to  hold  out  your 
hand  and  you  get  a  coin.  You  have  only  to  open  your  arms, 
and  there  are  friends  ready  to  fall  into  them.  And  then  what 
a  powerful  party  behind  you — formed  of  the  millions  who 
are  just  like  you!  You  enviable  man  who  don't  realise  your 
own  good  fortune! 

Lindgren.  So  you  think  me  that  far  down,  and  yourself 
as  high  up  as  all  that? — Tell  me,  you  don't  happen  to  have 
read  to-day's  paper?       [He  takes  a  newspaper  from  his  pocket. 

Axel.  No,  and  I  don't  care  to  read  it  either. 

Lindgren.  But  you  ought  to  do  it  for  your  own  sake. 

Axel.  No,  I  am  not  going  to  do  it — not  even  for  your  sake. 
It  is  as  if  you  said:  "Come  here  and  let  me  spit  at  you." 
And  then  you  are  silly  enough  to  demand  that  I  shall  come, 
too. — Do  you  know,  during  these  last  minutes  I  have  become 
more  and  more  convinced  that  if  I  had  ever  come  across  you 
in  the  jungle,  I  should  beyond  all  doubt  have  picked  you  off 
with  my  breech-loader? 


92  DEBIT  AND   CREDIT      scene  iv 

Lindgren.  I  believe  it — beast  of  prey  that  you  are! 

Axel.  It  isn't  safe  to  settle  accounts  with  one's  friends, 
or  with  persons  with  whom  one  has  been  intimate,  for  it  is 
hard  to  tell  in  advance  who  has  most  on  the  debit  side.  But 
as  you  are  bringing  in  a  bill,  I  am  forced  to  look  it  over. — 
You  don't  think  it  took  me  long  to  discover  that  back  of  all 
your  generosity  lay  an  unconscious  desire  to  turn  me  into 
the  strong  arm  which  you  lacked — to  make  me  do  for  you 
what  you  couldn't  do  for  yourself?  I  had  imagination  and 
initiative — you  had  nothing  but  money  and — "pull."  So 
I  am  to  be  congratulated  that  you  didn't  eat  me,  and  I  may 
be  excused  for  eating  you — my  only  choice  being  to  eat  or  be 
eaten! 

Lixdgrex.  You  beast  of  prey! 

Axel.  Yrou  rodent,  who  couldn't  become  a  beast  of  prey 
— although  that  was  just  what  you  wished!  And  what  you 
want  at  this  moment  is  not  so  much  to  rise  up  to  me  as  to 
pull  me  down  to  where  you  are.— If  you  have  anything  of 
importance  to  add,  you  had  better  hurry  up,  for  I  am  ex- 
pecting a  visit. 

Lindgren.  From  your  fiancee? 

Axel.  So  you  have  snooped  that  out,  too? 

Lindgren.  Sure  enough!  Ajid  I  know  what  Marie,  the 
deserted  one,  thinks  and  says — I  know  what  has  happened  to 
vour  brother  and  his  wife 

Axel.  Oh,  you  know  my  fiancee?  For,  you  see,  it  so  hap- 
pens thai   I  am  not  yet  engaged! 

LiMx.HEN.   No,  but  I  know  her  fiance. 

Axel.   What  does  that  mean? 

LlNDGREN.  Why,  she  has  been  running  around  with  an- 
other fellow  all  the  time—      So  you  didn't  know  that? 

Axel.  [As  he  listens  for  something  going  on  outside]  Oh, 
yes,  I  knew  of  it,  but  I  thought  she  was  done  with  him —    See 


scene  vi      DEBIT  AND   CREDIT  93 

here,  if  you'll  come  back  in  a  quarter  of  an  hour,  I'll  try  to 
get  things  arranged  for  you  in  some  way  or  another. 

Lindgren.  Is  that  a  polite  way  of  showing  me  the  door? 

Axel.  No,  it's  an  attempt  to  meet  an  old  obligation. 
Seriously! 

Lindgren.  Well,  then  I'll  go — and  come  back —  Good-bye 
for  a  while. 

FIFTH     SCENE 

Axel.     Lindgren.     The  Waiter.     Then  the  Fiance,  dressed 
in  black,  with  a  blue  ribbon  in  the  lapel  of  his  coat. 

Waiter.  There's  a  gentleman  here  who  wants  to  see  you. 
Axel.  Let  him  come  in. 

The  Waiter  goes  out,  leaving  the  door  open  behind  him. 

The  Fiance  enters. 
Lindgren.  [Observing  the  newcomer  closely]  Well,  good-bye, 
Axel — and  good  luck!  [He  goes  out. 

Axel.  Good-bye. 

SIXTH     SCENE 

Axel.     The  Fiance  [much  embarrassed] 

Axel.  With  whom  have  I  the  honour ? 

Fiance.  My  name  is  not  a  name  in  the  same  way  as  yours, 
Doctor,  and  my  errand  concerns  a  matter  of  the  heart 

Axel.  Oh,  do  you  happen  to  be —    You  know  Miss  Cecilia? 

Fiance.  I  am  the  man. 

Axel.  [Hesitating  for  a  moment;  then  with  decision]  Please 
be  seated.  [He  opens  the  door  and  beckons  the  Waiter. 

The  Waiter  enters. 

Axel.  [To  the  Waiter]  Have  my  bill  made  out,  see  that 
my  trunk  is  packed,  and  bring  me  a  carriage  in  half  an  hour. 


94  DEBIT   A  N  D   C  R  E  1)  I  T      scene  n 

\\  \iter.  [Bowing  and  leaving]  Yes,  Doctor. 

Axel.  [Goes  up  to  the  Fiance  and  sits  down  on  a  chair 
beside  him]  Now  let's  hear  what  you  have  to  say? 

Fiance.  [After  a  pause,  with  unction]  There  were  two  men 
living  in  the  same  city,  one  rich  and  the  other  poor.  The 
rich  man  hud  sheep  and  cattle  in  plenty.  The  poor  man 
owned  nothing  but  one  ewe  lamb 

Axel.  What  does  that  concern  me? 

Fiance.  [As  before]  One  ewe  lamb,  which  he  had  bought 
and  was  trying  to  raise. 

Axel.  Oh,  life's  too  short.  What  do  you  want?  Are  you 
and  Miss  Cecilia  still  engaged? 

Fiance.  [Changing  his  tone]  I  haven't  said  a  word  about 
Miss  Cecilia,  have  I? 

Axel.  Well,  sir,  you  had  better  get  down  to  business,  or 
1*11  show  you  the  door.  But  be  quick  about  it,  and  get 
straight  to  the  point,  without  any  frills 

Fiance.  [Holding  out  his  snuff-box]  May  I? 

Axel.  No,  thanks. 

Fiance.  A  great  man  like  you  has  no  such  little  weak- 
nesses, I  suppose? 

Axel.  As  you  don't  seem  willing  to  speak,  I  shall.  Of 
course,  it  is  none  of  your  business,  but  it  may  do  you  good 
to  learn  of  it,  as  you  don't  seem  to  know  it:  I  am  regularly 
engaged  to  Miss  Cecilia,  who  formerly  was  your  fiancee. 

Fiance.  [Startled]  Who  was? 

Axel.  Because  she  has  broken  with  you. 

Fiance.  I  know  nothing  about  it. 

Axel.  [Talcing  a  ring  from  the  pocket  of  his  waistcoat] 
That's  strange,  but  now  you  do  know.  And  here  you  can  see 
tin   ring  she  has  given  me. 

1-  [ANCE.  So  she  has  broken  with  me? 

Axel.  Yes,  as  she  couldn't  be  engaged  to  two  men  at  the 


scene  vi      DEBIT  AND   CREDIT  95 

same  time,  and  as  she  had  ceased  to  care  for  you,  she  had  to 
break  with  you.  I  might  have  told  you  all  this  in  a  more 
decent  fashion,  if  you  hadn't  stepped  on  my  corns  the  mo- 
ment you  came  in. 

Fiance.  I  didn't  do  anything  of  the  kind. 
Axel.  Cowardly    and    disingenuous — cringing    and    arro- 
gant at  the  same  time! 

Fiance.  [Gently]  You  are  a  hard  man,  Doctor. 
Axel.  No,  but  I  may  become  one.     You  showed  no  con- 
sideration  for  my   feelings   a   moment  ago.     You  sneered, 
which  I  didn't.     And  that's  the  end  of  our  conversation. 

Fiance.  [With  genuine  emotion]  I  feared  that  you  might 
take  away  from  me  my  only  lamb— but  you  wouldn't  do  that, 

you  who  have  so  many 

Axel.  Suppose  I  wouldn't — are  you  sure  she  would  stay 
with  you  anyhow? 

Fiance.  Put  yourself  in  my  place,  Doctor 

Axel.  Yes,  if  you'll  put  yourself  in  mine. 

Fiance.  I  am  a  poor  man 

Axel.  So  am  I!  But  judging  by  what  I  see  and  hear,  you 
have  certain  bliss  waiting  for  you  in  the  beyond.  That's 
more  than  I  have. — And,  furthermore,  I  have  taken  nothing 
away  from  you:  I  have  only  received  what  was  offered  me. 
Just  as  you  did! 

FiANcfe.  And  I  who  had  been  dreaming  of  a  future  for  this 

young  woman — a  future  full  of  brightness 

Axel.  Pardon  me  a  piece  of  rudeness,  but  you  began  it: 
are  you  so  sure  that  the  future  of  this  young  woman  will  not 
turn  out  a  great  deal  brighter  by  my  side? 

Fiance.  You  are  now  reminding  me  of  my  humble  po- 
sition as  a  worker 

Axel.  No,  I  am  reminding  you  of  that  young  woman's 
future,  which  you  have  so  much  at  heart.     And  as  I  am  told 


96  I)  E  B  I  T   A  XI)   CREDIT     scene  vii 

that  she  has  ceased  to  care  for  you,  but  does  care  for  me,  I 
am  only  taking  the  liberty  to  dream  of  a  brighter  future  for 
her  with  the  man  she  loves  than  with  the  man  she  doesn't 
love. 

FlANCE.  You  are  a  strong  man,  you  are,  and  we  little  ones 
were  born  to  be  your  victims! 

Axel.  See  here,  my  man.  I  have  been  told  that  you  got 
the  better  of  another  rival  for  Cecilia's  heart,  and  that  you 
were  not  very  scrupulous  about  the  means  used  for  the  pur- 
pose.    How  do  you  think  that  victim  liked  you? 

Fiance.  He  was  a  worthless  fellow. 

Axel.  From  whom  you  saved  the  girl!  And  now  I  save 
her  from  you!     Good-bye! 


SEVENTH    SCENE 

Axel.     The  Fiance.     Cecilia. 

Fiance.  Cecilia! 

Cecilia  draws  back  from  him. 

Fiance.  You  seem  to  know  your  way  into  this  place? 

Axel.  [To  the  Fiance]  You  had  better  disappear! 

Cecilia.  I  want  some  water! 

Fiance.  [Picking  up  the  whisky  bottle  from  the  table]  The 
bottle  seems  to  be  finished! — Beware  of  that  man,  Cecilia! 

Axel.  [Pushing  the  Fiance  out  through  tJie  door]  Oh,  your 
l>r<  sence  is  wholly  superfluous — get  out! 

Fiance.  Beware  of  that  man,  Cecilia!  [He  goes  out. 


scene  viii    DEBIT   AND   CREDI  T  97 

EIGHTH     SCENE 

Axel.     Cecilia. 

Axel.  That  was  a  most  unpleasant  incident,  which  you 
might  have  spared  me — both  by  breaking  openly  with  him 
and  by  not  coming  to  my  room. 

Cecilia.  [Weeping]  So  I  am  to  be  scolded,  too? 

Axel.  Well,  the  responsibility  had  to  be  fixed,  and  now, 
when  that's  done — we  can  talk  of  something  else. —  How  are 
you,  to  begin  with? 

Cecilia.  So,  so! 

Axel.  Not  well,  that  means? 

Cecilia.  How  are  you? 

Axel.  Fine — only  a  little  tired. 

Cecilia.  Are  you  going  with  me  to  see  my  aunt  this  after- 
noon? 

Axel.  No,  I  cannot,  for  I  have  to  drive  out. 

Cecilia.  And  that's  more  fun,  of  course.  You  go  out  such 
a  lot,  and  I — never! 

Axel.  Hm! 

Cecilia.  Why  do  you  say  "hm"? 

Axel.  Because  your  remark  made  an  unpleasant  impres- 
sion on  me. 

Cecilia.  One  gets  so  many  unpleasant  impressions  these 
days 

Axel.  For  instance? 

Cecilia.  By  reading  the  papers. 

Axel.  So  you  have  been  reading  those  scandalous  stories 
about  me!     And  you  believe  them? 

Cecilia.  One  doesn't  know  what  to  believe. 

Axel.  So  you*  really  suspect  me  of  being  the  unscrupulous 


98 


DEBIT  AND   CREDIT  scene  viii 


fellow  pictured  in  those  stories?  And  as  you  are  neverthe- 
less  willing  to  marry  me,  I  must  assume  that  you  are  moved 
by  purely  practical  considerations  and  not  by  any  personal 

attraction. 

Cecilia.  You  speak  so  harshly,  as  if  you  didn't  care  for 

me  at  all ! 

Axel.  Cecilia— are  you  willing  to  leave  this  place  with 

me  in  fifteen  minutes? 

Cecilia.  In  fifteen  minutes!     For  where! 

Axel.  London. 

Cecilia.  I  am  not  going  with  you  until  we  are  married. 

Axel.  Why? 

Cecilia.  Why  should  we  leave  like  that,  all  of  a  sudden? 

Axel.  Because — it's    suffocating    here!     And    if    I    stay, 
they'll  drag  me  down  so  deep  that  I'll  never  get  up  again. 

Cecilia.  How  strange!     Are  you  as  badly  off  as  that? 

Axel.  Do  you  come  with  me,  or  do  you  not? 

Cecilia.  Not    until   we   are  married — for  afterward  you 
would  never  marry  me. 

Axel.  So  that's  your  faith  in  me! — Will  you  sit  down  for 
a  moment,  then,  while  I  go  in  and  write  a  couple  of  letters? 

Cecilia.  Am  I  to  sit  here  alone,  with  all  the  doors  open? 

Axel.  Well,  don't  lock  the  door,  for  then  we  are  utterly 
lost .  [He  goes  out  to  the  left. 

Cecilia.  Don't  be  long! 

She  goes  up  to  the  door  leading  to  the  hallway  and  turns 
the  key  in  the  lock. 


scene  x       I)  E  15  IT   AND   C  K  EDI  T  90 


NINTH    SCENE 

Cecilia  alone  for  a  moment.     Tfien  Marie  enters. 

Cecilia.  Wasn't  the  door  locked? 

Marie.  Not  as  far  as  I  could  see! — So  it  was  meant  to  be 
locked? 

Cecilia.  I  haven't  the  honour? 

Marie.  Nor  have  I. 

Cecilia.  Why  should  you? 

Marie.  How  refined!  Oh,  I  see!  So  it's  you!  And  I 
am  the  victim— for  a  while! 

Cecilia.  I  don't  know  you. 

Marie.  But  I  know  you  pretty  well. 

Cecilia.  [Rises  and  goes  to  the  door  at  the  left]  Oh,  you  do? 
[Opening  the  door  and  speaking  to  Axel]  Come  out  here  a 
moment! 

TENTH     SCENE 

Cecilia.     Marie.     Axel. 

Axel.  [Entering;  to  Marie]  What  do  you  want  here? 

Marie.  Oh,  one  never  can  tell. 

Axel.  Then  you  had  better  clear  out. 

Marie.  Why? 

Axel.  Because  what  there  was  between  us  came  to  an 
end  three  years  ago. 

Marie.  And  now  there  is  another  one  to  be  thrown  on  the 
scrap  heap? 

Axel.  Did  I  ever  give  you  any  promises  that  were  not 
kept?     Have  I  ever  owed  you  anything?     Have  I  ever  said 


100  DEBIT  AND   CREDIT       scene  x 

a  word  about  marriage?  Have  we  had  any  children  together? 
Have  I  been  the  only  one  to  receive  your  favours? 

Marie.  But  now  you  mean  to  be  the  only  one?  With 
that  one  over  there! 

Cecilia.  [Goes  up  to  Marie]  What  do  you  mean?— I 
don't  know  yon! 

Marie.  No,  but  there  was  a  time  when  you  did  know  me. 
And  I  remember  that  when  we  met  in  the  streets  we  called 
each  other  by  our  first  names.  [To  Axel]  And  now  you  are 
going  to  marry  her?  No,  you  know,  you  are  really  too  good 
for  that! 

Axel.  [To  Cecilia]  Have  you  known  that  woman  before? 

Cecilia.  No. 

Marie.  You  ought  to  be  ashamed  of  yourself?     I  simply 

didn't  recognise  you  at  first  because  of  your  swell  clothes 

Axel  gazes  intently  at  Cecilia. 

Cecilia.  [To  Axel]  Come — I'll  go  with  you ! 

Axel.  [Preoccupied]  In  a  moment!  Just  wait  a  while!  I 
am  only  going  in  to  write  another  letter —  But  now  v/e'll 
close  the  door  first  of  all. 

Marie.  No,  thank  you,  I  don't  want  to  be  locked  in  as 
she  was  a  while  ago. 

Axel.  [Interested]  Was  the  door  locked? 

Cecilia.  [To  Marie]  You  don't  dare  say  that  the  door  was 
locked ! 

Marie.  As  you  expected  it  to  be  locked,  I  suppose  you 
had  tried  to  lock  it  and  had  not  succeeded 

Axel.  [Observes  Cecilia;  then  to  Marie]  It  always  seemed 
to  me  that  you  were  a  nice  girl,  Marie.  Will  you  let  me 
have  my  letters  back  now? 

Marie.  No. 

Axel.  What  are  you  going  to  do  with  them? 


scene  xi      DEBIT  AND   CREDIT  101 

Marie.  I  hear  that  I  can  sell  them,  now  when  you  have 
become  famous. 
Axel.  And  get  your  revenge  at  the  same  time? 
Marie.  Exactly. 

Axel.  Is  it  Lindgren ? 

Marie.  Yes! — And  here  he  is  now  himself. 


ELEVENTH     SCENE 

Cecilia.    Marie.     Axel.    Lindgren. 

Lindgren.  [Enters  in  high  spirits]  Well,  what  a  lot  of 
skirts!  And  Marie,  too — like  the  cuckoo  that's  in  every  nest! 
Now  listen,  Axel! 

Axel.  I  hear  you  even  when  I  don't  see  you.  You're  in 
a  fine  humour — what  new  misfortune  has  befallen  me? 

Lindgren.  I  was  only  a  little  sour  this  morning  because 
I  hadn't  had  a  chance  to  get  wound  up.  But  now  I've  had 
a  bite  to  eat —  Well,  you  see — at  bottom  you  don't  owe  me 
anything  at  all.  For  what  I  did,  I  did  out  of  my  heart's 
goodness,  and  it  has  brought  me  both  honour  and  pleasure 
— and  what  you  got  was  a  gift  and  no  loan ! 

Axel.  Now  you  are  altogether  too  modest  and  generous. 

Lindgren.  Not  at  all!  However,  one  favour  calls  for 
another.  Would  you  mind  becoming  my  surety  on  this 
note? 

Axel  hesitates. 

Lindgren.  Well,  you  needn't  be  afraid  that  I'm  going  to 
put  you  in  the  same  kind  of  fix  as  your  brother  did 

Axel.  What  do  you  mean?     It  was  I  who  put  him 

Lindgren.  Yes,  to  the  tune  of  two  hundred  crowns — but 
he  got  your  name  as  surety  for  five  years'  rent 

Axel.  [In  a  low  voice]  Jesus  Christ! 


102  DEBIT  AND  CREDIT    scene  xn 

Lixdgrex.  What's  that?— Hm— hm! 

Axel.  [Looking  at  his  watch]  Just  wait  a  few  minutes— I 
have  only  to  write  a  couple  of  letters. 
Cecilia  starts  to  go  with  him. 
Axel.  [Holds  her  back]  Just  a  few  minutes,   my  dear— 
[He  kisses  her  on  the  forehead]  Just  a  few  minutes! 

[He  goes  toward  the  left. 
Lixdgrex.  Here's  the  note — you  might  sign  it  while  you 
are  at  it. 

Axel.  Give  it  to  me ! 

[He  goes  out  with  an  air  of  determination. 


TWELFTH     SCENE 

Cecilia.     Marie.     Lindgren. 

Lindgren.  Well,  girls,  are  you  on  good  terms  again? 
Marie.  Oh,  yes,  and  before  we  get  away,  we'll  be  on  still 
better  terms. 

Cecilia  makes  a  face. 
Marie.  I  should  like  to  have  some  fun  to-day. 
Lindgren.  Come  along  with  me!     I'll  have  money! 
Marie.  No! 

Cecilia  sits  doion  with  evident  anxiety  near  the  door 
through  which  Axel  disappeared — as  if  seeking  sup- 
port in  that  direction. 
Lixdgrex.  Let's  take  in  the  fireworks  to-night — then  we 
can  see  how  a  great  man  looks  in  red  light — what  do  you  say 
to  that,  Cissie  dear? 

Cecilia.  Oh,  I'll  be  sick  if  I  have  to  stay  here  longer! 
M  \kik.  Well,  it  wouldn't  be  the  first  time. 
Lindgren.  Scrap,  girls,  and  I'll  watch  you!    Fight  till 
the  fur  flies     won't  you? 


scene  xiii   DEBIT  AND   CREDIT  103 

THIRTEENTH    SCENE 

Cecilia.     Marie.     Lindgren.     Thure  and  his  Wife  enter. 

Lindgren.  Well,  well!     Old  friends!     How  are  you? 

Thure.  All  right. 

Lindgren.  And  the  child? 

Thure.  The  child? 

Lindgren.  Oh,  you  have  forgotten  it? — Are  you  equally 
forgetful  about  names? 

Thure.  Names? 

Lindgren.  Signatures! — He  must  be  writing  an  awful  lot 
in  there! 

Thure.  Is  my  brother,  the  doctor,  in  there? 

Lindgren.  I  don't  know  if  the  doctor  is  there,  but  your 
brother  went  in  there  a  while  ago. — And,  for  that  matter,  we 
might  find  out.  [He  knocks  at  the  door]  Silent  as  the  grave! 
[Knocks  again]  Then  I'll  walk  right  in. 

[He  goes  out;  everybody  appears  restless  and  anxious. 

Cecilia.  What  can  it  mean? 

Marie.  Well,  we'll  see  now. 

Thure.  What  has  happened  here? 

Wife.  Something  is  up! — You'll  see  he  doesn't  help  us! 

Lindgren.  [Returns,  carrying  in  his  hand  a  small  bottle 
and  some  letters]  What  does  it  say?  [He  reads  the  label  on  the 
bottle]  Cyanide  of  potassium! — How  stupid!  What  a  senti- 
mental idiot — to  kill  himself  for  so  little —  [Everybody  cries 
out]  So  you  were  no  beast  of  prey,  my  dear  Axel! — But — 
[He  stares  through  the  open  door  into  the  adjoining  room]  — he's 
not  there — and  his  things  are  gone,  too.  So  he  has  skipped 
out!  And  the  bottle  has  never  been  opened !  That  means — 
he  meant  to  kill  himself,  but  changed  his  mind! — And  these 


1U4  DEBIT   AND   CREDIT   scene  xiu 

arc  his  posthumous  writings.  "To  Miss  Cecilia" — seems 
to  contain  some  round  object — probably  an  engagement  ring 
— there  you  are! — "To  my  brother  Thure"  [He  holds  up 
the  letter  to  the  light]  — with  a  piece  of  blue  paper  inside — 
must  be  a  note — for  the  amount  involved!  You're  welcome! 
The  Fiance  appears  in  the  doorway  at  the  right. 

Thube.  [Who  has  opened  his  letter]  Do  you  see  that  he 
helped  us  after  all 

Wife.  Oh,  in  that  way! 

Lindgren.  And  here's  my  note — without  his  name —  He's 
a  strong  one,  all  right!     Diablel 

Marie.  Then  the  fireworks  will  be  called  off,  I  suppose? 

Fiance.  Was  there  nothing  for  me? 

Lindgren.  Yes,  I  think  there  was  a  fiancee — somewhere 
over  there! — I  tell  you,  that  fellow  is  a  wonder  at  clearing 
up  tangled  affairs! — Of  course,  it  makes  me  mad  to  think  that 
I  let  myself  be  fooled — but  I'll  be  darned  if  I  don't  think  I 
would  have  done  just  as  he  did! — And  so  would  you,  perhaps? 
— Or  what  do  you  think? 

Curtain. 


ADVENT 

(ADVENT) 

A  MIRACLE  PLAY 
1899 


CHARACTERS 

The  Judge 

The  Old  Lady,  wife  of  the  Judge 
Amelia 
Adolph 

The  Neighbour 
Eric 
Thyra 

The  Other  One     )  hdng  ^  mme  person 
The  Franciscan    ) 
The  Playmate 
The  Witch 
The  Prince 
Subordinate  characters,  shadows,  etc. 

Act     I.    The  Vineyard  with  the  Mausoleum 
Act   II.    The  Drawing-room 
Act  III.    The  Wine-Cellar 

The  Garden 
Act  IV.    The  Cross-Roads 

The  "Waiting-room" 

The  Cross-Roads 

The  Court-room 
Act    V.     The  Drawing-room 

The  "Waiting-room" 


106 


ADVENT 
ACT   I 

The  background  represents  a  vineyard.  At  the  left  stands  a 
mausoleum.  It  consists  of  a  small  whitewaslied  brick  build- 
ing with  a  door  and  a  pointed  window  that  lacks  mullions 
and  panes.  The  roof  is  made  of  red  tiles.  A  cross  crowns 
the  gable.  Clematis  vines  with  purple-coloured,  cross- 
shaped  flowers  cover  the  front  ivall,  at  the  foot  of  which  ap- 
pear a  number  of  other  flowers. 

A  peach-tree  carrying  fruit  stands  near  the  foreground.  Be- 
neath it  sit  the  Judge  and  the  Old  Lady. 

The  Judge  wears  a  green  cap  with  a  peak,  yellow  knee-breeches, 
and  a  blue  coat — all  dating  back  to  1820.  The  Old  Lady 
wears  a  kerchief  on  her  head  and  carries  a  stick,  spectacles, 
and  sn  uff-box.  She  has  the  general  appearance  ofa<(  witch." 

At  the  right  is  a  small  expiatory  chapel  containing  an  image  of 
the  Holy  Virgin.  The  fence  in  front  of  it  is  hung  with 
wreaths  and  nosegays.  A  prie-dieu  is  placed  against  the 
fence. 

Judge.  Life's  eve  has  at  last  brought  the  sunshine  which 
its  morning  promised  us.  Early  rains  and  late  rains  have 
blessed  meadow  and  field.  And  soon  the  songs  of  the  vint- 
agers will  be  heard  all  over  the  country. 

Old  Lady.  Don't  talk  like  that;  somebody  might  hear 
you. 

107 


108  ADVENT  act  i 

JUDGE.  Who  could  be  listening  here,  and  what  harm  could 
it  do  to  thank  God  for  all  good  gifts? 

Old  Lady.  It's  better  not  to  mention  one's  good  fortune 
lest  misfortune  overhear  it. 

Judge.  What  of  it?     Was  I  not  born  with  a  caul? 

Old  Ladv.  Take  care,  take  care!  There  are  many  who 
envy  us,  and  evil  eyes  are  watching  us. 

Judge.  Well,  let  them!  That's  the  way  it  has  always 
been.     And  yet  I  have  prospered. 

Old  Lady.  So  far,  yes.  But  I  don't  trust  our  neighbour. 
He  has  been  going  around  the  village  saying  that  we  have 
cheated  him  out  of  his  property — and  much  more  of  the  same 
kind  which  I  don't  care  to  repeat.  Of  course,  it  doesn't 
matter  when  one  has  a  clean  conscience  and  can  point  to  a 
spotless  life.  Slander  cannot  hurt  me.  I  go  to  confession 
and  mass,  and  I  am  prepared  to  close  my  eyes  whenever  my 
hour  may  strike  in  order  to  open  them  again  when  I  shall 
stand  face  to  face  with  my  Judge.  And  I  know  also  what  I 
am  going  to  answer  then. 

Judge.  What  are  you  going  to  answer? 

Old  Lady.  Like  this:  I  was  not  without  fault,  O  Lord, 
but  even  if  I  was  but  a  poor,  sinful  human  creature,  I  was 
nevertheless  a  little  better  than  my  neighbour. 

Judge.  I  don't  know  what  has  brought  you  to  these 
thoughts  just  now,  and  I  don't  like  them.  Perhaps  it  is  the 
fad  that  the  mausoleum  is  to  be  consecrated  in  a  few  dajrs? 

Old  Lady.  Perhaps  that  is  it,  for,  as  a  rule,  I  don't  give 
much  thought  to  death.  I  have  still  every  tooth  left  in  my 
mouth,  and  my  hair  is  as  plentiful  as  when  I  was  a  bride. 

Judge.  Yes,  yes — you  have  eternal  youth,  you  as  well  as 
L  but  ju^t  the  same  we  shall  have  to  pass  away.  And  as  for- 
tune  has  smiled  on  us,  we  have  wanted  to  avail  ourselves 
of  the  privilege  of  resting  in  ground  belonging  to  ourselves. 


act  i  ADVENT  109 

And  so  we  have  built  this  little  tomb  for  ourselves  here, 
where  every  tree  knows  us,  where  every  flower  will  whisper  of 

our  labours,  and  our  troubles,  and  our  struggles 

Old  Lady.  Yes,  struggles  against  envious  neighbours  and 
ungrateful  children 

Judge.  There  you  said  it:  ungrateful  children.— Have  you 
seen  anything  of  Adolph? 

Old  Lady.  No,  I  haven't  seen  him  since  he  started  out 
this  morning  to  raise  the  money  for  the  rent. 

Judge.  The  money  which  he  will  never  get — and  I  still 
less.  But  he  knows  now  that  the  time  of  grace  is  up,  for  this 
is  the  third  quarter  rent  that  he  has  failed  to  pay. 

Old  Lady.  Yes,  out  with  him  into  the  world,  and  let  him 
learn  to  work  instead  of  sitting  here  and  playing  at  son-in- 
law.     I'll  keep  Amelia  and  the  children 

Judge.  Do  you  think  Amelia  will  let  herself  be  separated 
from  Adolph? 

Old  Lady.  I  think  so,  when  it  is  a  question  whether  her 
children  are  to  inherit  anything  from  us  or  not —  No,  look! 
There  it  is  again ! 

On  the  wall  of  the  mausoleum  appears  a  spot  of  sunlight 
like  those  which  children  are  fond  of  producing  icith 
a  small  mirror.1     It  is  vibrating  as  if  it  were  reflected 
by  running  water. 
Judge.  What  is  it?    What  is  it? 
Old  Lady.  On  the  mausoleum.     Don't  you  see? 
Judge.  It's  the  reflection  of  the  sun  on  the  river.     It 

means 

Old  Lady.  It  means  that  we'll  see  the  light  of  the  sun  for 

a  long  time  to  come 

Judge.  On  the  contrary.     But  that's  all  one.     The  best 

1  In  Sweden  such  spots  are  called  "sun-cats." 


110  ADVENT  act  i 

pillow  for  one's  head  is  a  good  conscience,  and  the  reward  of 
the  righteous  never  fails.— There's  our  neighbour  now. 

Nkighbour.  [Enters]  Good  evening,  Judge.  Good  eve- 
ning, madam. 

Judge.  Good  evening,  neighbour.  How  goes  it?  It 
wasn't  yesterday  we  had  the  pleasure.  And  how  are  your 
\  ines,  I  should  have  asked? 

Neighbour.  The  vines,  yes — there's  mildew  on  them,  and 
the  starlings  are  after  them,  too. 

Judge.  Well,  well!  There's  no  mildew  on  my  vines,  and 
I  have  neither  seen  nor  heard  of  any  starlings. 

Neighbour.  Fate  does  not  distribute  its  gifts  evenly:  one 
shall  be  taken  and  the  other  left. 

Old  Lady.  I  suppose  there  are  good  reasons  for  it? 
Neighbour.  I  see!     The  reward  of  the  righteous  shall  not 
fail,  and  the  wicked  shall  not  have  to  wait  for  their  punish- 
ment. 

Judge.  Oh,  no  malice  meant!  But  you  have  to  admit, 
anyhow,  that  it's  queer:  two  parcels  of  land  lie  side  by  side, 

and  one  yields  good  harvests,  the  other  poor  ones 

Neighbour.  One  yields  starlings  and  the  other  not:  that's 
what  I  find  queerer  still.  But,  then,  everybody  wasn't  born 
with  a  caul,  like  you,  Judge. 

Judge.  What  you  say  is  true,  and  fortune  has  favoured 
me.  I  am  thankful  for  it,  and  there  are  moments  when  I 
feel  proud  of  it  as  if  I  had  deserved  it. — But  listen,  neighbour 
you  came  as  if  you  had  been  sent  for. — That  leasehold 
of  mine  is  vacant,  and  I  wanted  to  ask  you  if  you  care  to 
take  it. 

The  Old  Lady  has  in  the  meantime  left  her  seat  and 
(join;  to  the  mausoleum,  where  she  is  busying  herself 
with  the  flowers. 


act  i  ADVENT  111 

Neighbour.  Oh,  the  leasehold  is  vacant.  Hm!  Since 
when? 

Judge.  Since  this  morning. 

Neighbour.  Hm!  So! — That  means  your  son-in-law  has 
got  to  go? 

Judge.  Yes,  that  good-for-nothing  doesn't  know  how  to 
manage. 

Neighbour.  Tell  me  something  else,  Judge.  Haven't  you 
heard  that  the  state  intends  to  build  a  military  road  across 
this  property? 

Judge.  Oh,  I  have  heard  some  rumours  to  that  effect,  but 
I  don't  think  it's  anything  but  empty  talk. 

Neighbour.  On  the  contrary,  I  have  read  it  in  the  papers. 
That  would  mean  condemnation  proceedings,  and  the  loser 
would  be  the  holder  of  the  lease. 

Judge.  I  cannot  think  so,  and  I  would  never  submit  to 
it.  I  to  leave  this  spot  where  I  expect  to  end  my  days  in 
peace,  and  where  I  have  prepared  a  final  resting-place  to 
escape  lying  with  all  the  rest 

Neighbour.  Wait  a  minute!  One  never  knows  what  may 
prove  one's  final  resting-place.  My  father,  who  used  to  own 
this  property,  also  expected  to  be  laid  to  rest  in  his  own 
ground,  but  it  happened  otherwise.  As  far  as  the  leasehold 
is  concerned,  I  must  let  it  go. 

Judge.  As  you  please.  On  my  part  the  proposition  was 
certainly  disinterested,  as  you  are  a  man  without  luck.  For 
it  is  no  secret  that  you  fail  in  everything  you  undertake,  and 
people  have  their  own  thoughts  about  one  who  remains  as 
solitary  and  friendless  as  you.  Isn't  it  a  fact  that  you  haven't 
a  single  friend? 

Neighbour.  Yes,  it's  true.  I  have  not  a  single  friend, 
and  that  doesn't  look  well.     It  is  something  I  cannot  deny. 

Judge.  But  to  turn  to  other  matters — is  it  true,  as  the 


lK>  ADVENT  act  i 

legend  has  it,  that  this  vineyard  once  was  a  battle-field,  and 
that  this  explains  why  the  wine  from  it  is  so  fiery? 

N  kighbour.  No,  that  isn't  what  I  have  heard.  My  fa- 
ther  told  me  that  this  had  been  a  place  of  execution,  and  that 
the  gallows  used  to  stand  where  the  mausoleum  is  now. 

Judge.  Oh,  how  dreadful!     Why  did  you  tell  me? 

Neighbour.  Because  you  asked,  of  course. — And  the  last 
man  to  be  hanged  on  this  spot  was  an  unrighteous  judge. 
And  now  he  lies  buried  here,  together  with  many  others, 
among  them  being  also  an  innocent  victim  of  his  iniquity. 

Judge.  What  kind  of  stories  are  those!  [He  calls  out] 
Caroline! 

\  kighbour.  And  that's  why  his  ghost  has  to  come  back 
here.     Have  you  never  seen  him,  Judge? 

Judge.  I  have  never  seen  anything  at  all ! 

Neighbour.  But  I  have  seen  him.  As  a  rule,  he  appears 
at  the  time  when  the  grapes  are  harvested,  and  then  they 
hear  him  around  the  wine-press  down  in  the  cellar. 

Judge.  [Calling  out]  Caroline! 

Old  Lady.  What  is  it? 

Judge.  Come  here! 

Neighbour.  And  he  will  never  be  at  peace  until  he  has 
suffered  all  the  torments  his  victim  had  to  pass  through. 

Judge.  Get  away  from  here!     Go! 

Neighbour.  Certainly,  Judge!  I  didn't  know  you  were 
so  sensitive.  [He  goes  out. 

Old  Lady.  What  was  the  matter? 

Judge.  Oh,  he  told  a  lot  of  stories  that  upset  me.  But — 
I. ut — he  is  plotting  something  evil,  that  fellow! 

Old  Lady.  Didn't  I  tell  you  so!  But  you  always  let  your 
ton^m-  run  whenever  you  see  anybody —  What  kind  of  fool- 
i-h  superstition  was  he  giving  you? 

Judge.  I  don't  want  to  talk  of  it.     The  mere  thought  of 


act  i  ADVENT  US 

it  makes  me  sick.  I'll  tell  you  some  other  time. — There's 
Adolph  now! 

Adolph.  [Entering]  Good  evening! 

Judge.  [After  a  pause]  Well? 

Adolph.  Luck  is  against  me.  I  have  not  been  able  to 
get  any  money. 

Judge.  I  suppose  there  are  good  reasons  for  it? 

Adolph.  I  can  see  no  reason  why  some  people  should  fare 
well  and  others  badly. 

Judge.  Oh,  you  can't? — Well,  look  into  your  own  heart; 
search  your  own  thoughts  and  actions,  and  you'll  find  that 
you  have  yourself  to  blame  for  your  misfortunes. 

Adolph.  Perhaps  I  may  not  call  myself  righteous  in  every 
respect,  but  at  least  I  have  no  serious  crimes  on  my  con- 
science. 

Old  Lady.  You  had  better  think  well 

Adolph.  I  don't  think  that's  needful,  for  my  conscience 
is  pretty  wakeful 


Judge.  It  can  be  put  to  sleep 

Adolph.  Can  it?  Of  course  I  have  heard  of  evil-doers 
growing  old  in  crime,  but  as  a  rule  their  consciences  wake  up 
just  before  death;  and  I  have  even  heard  of  criminals  whose 
consciences  have  awakened  after  death. 

Judge.  [Agitated]  So  that  they  had  to  come  back,  you 
mean?  Have  you  heard  that  story,  too?  It's  strange  that 
everybody  seems  to  have  heard  it  except  me 

Old  Lady.  What  are  you  talking  about?  Stick  to  busi- 
ness instead. 

Adolph.  Yes,  I  think  that's  wiser,  too.  And,  as  the  sub- 
ject has  been  broached,  I  want  to  tell  you  what  I  propose 


Judge.  Look  here,  my  boy!  I  think  it  a  good  deal  more 
appropriate  that  I  should  tell  you  what  I  have  decided.  It 
is  this:  that  from  this  day  you  cease  to  be  my  tenant,  and 


1H  ADVENT  act  i 

that   before  the  sun  sets  you  must  start   out   to  look   for 
work. 

Adolph.  Are  you  in  earnest? 

Judge.  You  ought  to  be  ashamed!  I  am  not  in  the  habit 
of  joking.  And  you  have  no  cause  for  complaint,  as  you 
have  been  granted  respite  twice. 

Adolph.  While  my  crops  have  failed  three  times.  Can  I 
help  that? 

Judge.  Nor  have  I  said  so.  But  I  can  help  it  still  less. 
And  you  are  not  being  judged  by  me.  Here  is  the  contract 
— here's  the  broken  agreement.  Was  that  agreement  broken 
by  me?  Oh,  no!  So  I  am  without  responsibility  and  wash 
my  hands  of  the  matter. 

Adolph.  This  may  be  the  law,  but  I  had  thought  there 
ought  to  be  some  forbearance  among  relatives — especially 
as,  in  the  natural  course  of  events,  this  property  should  pass 
on  to  your  offspring. 

Old  Lady.  Well,  well:  the  natural  course  of  events!  He's 
going  around  here  wishing  the  life  out  of  us!  But  you  just 
look  at  me:  I  am  good  for  twenty  years  more.  And  I  am 
going  to  live  just  to  spite  you! 

Judge.  [To  Adolph]  What  rudeness— what  a  lack  of  all 
human  feeling — to  ask  a  couple  of  old  people  outright:  are 
you  not  going  to  die  soon?  You  ought  to  be  ashamed  of  your- 
self, I  say!  But  now  you  have  broken  the  last  tie,  and  all 
I  can  say  is:  go  your  way,  and  don't  let  yourself  be  seen 
bere  any  more! 

Adolph.  That's  plain  talk!    Well,  I'll  go,  but  not  alone 

Old  Lady.  So-o — you  imagined  that  Amelia,  our  own  child, 
should  follow  you  out  on  the  highways,  and  that  all  you 
would  have  to  do  would  be  to  unload  one  child  after  another 
on  us!  But  we  have  already  thought  of  that  and  put  a  stop 
to  it 


act  i  ADVENT  llfi 

Adolph.  Where  is  Amelia?     Where? 

Old  Lady.  You  may  just  as  well  know.  She  has  gone  on 
a  visit  to  the  convent  of  the  Poor  Clares — only  for  a  visit. 
So  now  you  know  it's  of  no  use  to  look  for  her  here. 

Adolph.  Some  time  you  will  have  to  suffer  for  your 
cruelty  in  depriving  a  man  in  distress  of  his  only  support. 
And  if  you  break  up  our  marriage,  the  penalty  of  that  breach 
will  fall  on  you. 

Judge.  You  should  be  ashamed  of  putting  your  own  guilt 
on  those  that  are  innocent!  Go  now!  And  may  you  hun- 
ger and  thirst,  with  every  door  closed  to  you,  until  you  have 
learned  gratitude! 

Adolph.  The  same  to  you  in  double  measure! — But  let 
me  only  bid  my  children  good-bye,  and  I  will  go. 

Judge.  As  you  don't  want  to  spare  your  children  the  pain 
of  leave-taking,  I'll  do  so — have  already  done  it,  in  fact. 

Adolph.  That,  too!  Then  I  believe  you  capable  of  all 
tin-  evil  that  has  been  rumoured.  And  now  I  know  what 
our  neighbour  meant  when  he  said  that  you  couldn't — en- 
dure the  sun! 

Judge.  Not  another  word!     Or  you  will  feel  the  heavy 

hand  of  law  and  justice 

He  raises  his  right  hand  so  that  the  absence  of  its  fore- 
finger becomes  visible. 

Adolph.  [Takes  hold  of  the  hand  and  examines  it]  The 
hand  of  justice! — -The  hand  of  the  perjurer  whose  finger 
stuck  to  the  Bible  when  he  took  his  false  oath!  Woe  unto 
you!  Woe!  For  the  day  of  retribution  is  at  hand,  and  your 
deeds  will  rise  like  corpses  out  of  these  hillsides  to  accuse 
you. 

Old  Lady.  What  is  that  he  is  saying?  It  feels  as  if  he 
were  breathing  fire  at  us! — Go,  you  lying  spirit,  and  may  hell 
be  your  reward! 


11C  ADVENT  act  i 

Adolph.  May  Heaven  reward  you — according  to  your  de- 
serta  —and  may  the  Lord  protect  my  children!       [He  goes  out. 

.It  dgb.  Whal  was  that?  Who  was  it  that  spoke?  It 
seemed  to  me  as  if  the  voice  were  coming  out  of  some  huge 
underground  hall. 

Old  Lad  v.  Did  you  hear  it,  too? 

Judge.  God  help  us,  then! — Do  you  remember  what  he 
said  about  the  sun?  That  struck  me  as  more  peculiar  than 
all  the  rest.  How  could  he  know — that  it  is  so?  Ever  since 
my  birth  the  sun  has  always  burned  me,  and  they  have  told 
me  this  is  so  because  my  mother  suffered  from  sunstroke 
before  I  was  born — but  that  you  also 

Old  Lady.  [Frightened]  Hush!  Talk  of  the  devil,  and — 
Isn't  the  sun  down? 

Judge.  Of  course  it  is  down! 

Old  Lady.  How  can  that  spot  of  sunlight  remain  on  the 
mausoleum,  then?  [The  spot  moves  around. 

Judge.  Jesus  Maria!     That's  an  omen! 

Old  Lady.  An  omen,  you  say!  And  on  the  grave!  That 
doesn't  happen  every  day — and  only  a  few  chosen  people 

who  are  full  of  living  faith  in  the  highest  things 

[The  spot  of  light  disappears. 

Judge.  There  is  something  weird  about  the  place  to-night, 
something  ghastly. — But  what  hurt  me  most  keenly  was  to 
hear  that  good-for-nothing  wishing  the  life  out  of  us  in  order 
to  get  at  the  property.  Do  you  know  what  I — well,  I  won- 
der if  I  dare  to  speak  of  it 

Old  Lady.  Go  on! 

•I  i  dge.  Have  you  heard  the  story  that  this  spot  here  used 
to  be  a  place  of  execution? 

Old  Lady.  So  you  have  found  that  out,  too? 

Judge.  Yes — and  you  knew  it? — Well,  suppose  we  gave 
this  property  to  the  convent?     That  would  make  the  ground 


act  i  ADVENT  117 

sacred,  and  if  would  be  possible  to  rest  in  peace  in  it.  The 
income  mighl  go  to  the  children  while  they  are  growing  up, 
and  it  would  mean  an  additional  gain,  as  Adolph  would  be 
fooled  in  his  hope  of  inheriting  from  us.  I  think  this  a  re- 
markably happy  solution  of  a  difficult  problem:  how  to  give 
away  without  losing  anything  by  it. 

Old  Lady.  Your  superior  intelligence  has  again  asserted 
itself,  and  I  am  quite  of  your  opinion.  But  suppose  con- 
demnation proceedings  should  be  started — what  would  hap- 
pen then? 

Judge.  There  is  plenty  of  time  to  consider  that  when  it 
happens.  In  the  meantime,  let  us  first  of  all,  and  as  quietly 
as  possible,  get  the  mausoleum  consecrated 

Franciscan.  [Enters]  The  peace  of  the  Lord  be  with  you, 
Judge,  and  with  you,  madam! 

Judge.  You  come  most  conveniently,  Father,  to  hear  some- 
thing that  concerns  the  convent 

Franciscan.  I  am  glad  of  it. 

The  spot  of  light  appears  again  on  tlie  mausoleum. 

Old  Lady.  And  then  we  wanted  to  ask  when  the  conse- 
cration of  the  mausoleum  might  take  place. 

Franciscan.  [Staring  at  her]  Oh,  is  that  so? 

Judge.  Look,  Father — look  at  that  omen 

Old  Lady.  Yes,  the  spot  must  be  sacred,  indeed 

Franciscan.  That's  a  will-o'-the-wisp. 

Old  Lady.  Is  it  not  a  good  sign?  Does  it  not  carry  some 
kind  of  message?  Does  it  not  prompt  a  pious  mind  to  stop 
and  consider?  Would  it  not  be  possible  to  turn  this  place 
into  a  refuge  for  desert  wanderers  who  are  seeking 

Franciscan.  Madam,  let  me  speak  a  word  to  you  in  pri- 
vate. [He  moves  over  to  the  right. 

Old  Lady.  [Following  him]  Father? 

Franciscan.  [Speaking  in  a  subdued  voice]  You,  madam, 


118  A  1)  V  ENT  act  i 

enjoy  a  reputation  in  this  vicinity  which  you  don't  deserve, 
for  you  are  the  worst  sinner  that  I  know  of.  You  want  to 
Kay  your  pardon,  and  you  want  to  steal  heaven  itself,  you 
who  have  already  stolen  from  the  Lord. 

Old  Lady.  What  is  it  I  hear? 

Franciscan.  When  you  were  sick  and  near  death  you 
made  a  vow  to  the  Lord  that  in  case  of  recovery  you  would 
give  a  monstrance  of  pure  gold  to  the  convent  church.  Your 
health  was  restored  and  you  gave  the  holy  vessel,  but  it  was 
of  silver — gilded.  Not  for  the  sake  of  the  gold,  but  because 
of  your  broken  vow  and  your  deception,  you  are  already 
damned. 

Old  Lady.  I  didn't  know  it.  The  goldsmith  has  cheated 
me. 

Franciscan.  You  are  lying,  for  I  have  the  goldsmith's 

bill. 

Old  Lady.  Is  there  no  pardon  for  it? 

Franciscan.  No!     For  it  is  a  mortal  sin  to  cheat  God. 

Old  Lady.  Woe  is  me! 

Franciscan.  The  settlement  of  your  other  crimes  will 
have  to  take  place  within  yourself.  But  if  you  as  much  as 
touch  a  hair  on  the  heads  of  the  children,  then  you  shall  learn 
who  is  their  protector,  and  you  shall  feel  the  iron  rod. 

Old  Lady.  The  idea  —  that  this  infernal  monk  should 
dare  to  say  such  things  to  me!  If  I  am  damned — then  I 
want  to  be  damned!     Ha,  ha! 

Franciscan.  W7ell,  you  may  be  sure  that  there  will  be  no 
blessing  for  your  house  and  no  peace  for  yourself  until  you 
have  suffered  every  suffering  that  you  have  brought  on  oth- 
ers.— May  I  speak  a  word  with  you,  Judge? 
The  Judge  approaclies. 

Old  Lady.  Yes,  give  him  what  he  deserves,  so  that  one 
may  be  as  good  as  the  other. 


act  i  ADVENT  110 

Franciscan.  [To  the  Judge]  Where  did  you  get  the  idea 
of  building  your  tomb  where  the  gallows  used  to  stand? 

Judge.  I  suppose  I  got  it  from  the  devil ! 

Franciscan.  Like  the  idea  of  easting  off  your  children 
and  robbing  them  of  their  inheritance?  But  you  have  also 
been  an  unrighteous  judge— you  have  violated  oaths  and 
accepted  bribes. 

Judge.  I? 

Franciscan.  And  now  you  want  to  erect  a  monument  to 
yourself!  You  want  to  build  yourself  an  imperishable  house 
in  heaven!  But  listen  to  me:  this  spot  will  never  be  con- 
secrated, and  you  may  consider  it  a  blessing  if  you  are  per- 
mitted to  rest  in  common  ground  among  ordinary  little 
sinners.  There  is  a  curse  laid  on  this  soil,  because  blood-guilt 
attaches  to  it  and  because  it  is  ill-gotten. 

Judge.  What  am  I  to  do? 

Franciscan.  Repent,  and  restore  the  stolen  property. 

Judge.  I  have  never  stolen.  Everything  has  been  legally 
acquired. 

Franciscan.  That,  you  see,  is  the  worst  part  of  all — that 
you  regard  your  crimes  as  lawful.  Yes,  I  know  that  you 
even  consider  yourself  particularly  favoured  by  Heaven  be- 
cause of  your  righteousness.  But  now  you  will  soon  see  what 
harvest  is  in  store  for  you.  Thorns  and  thistles  will  grow 
in  your  vineyard.  Helpless  and  abandoned  you  shall  be, 
and  the  peace  of  your  old  age  will  turn  into  struggle  and 
strife. 

Judge.  The  devil  you  say! 

Franciscan.  Don't  call  him — he'll  come  anyhow! 

Judge.  Let  him  come!  Because  we  believe,  we  have  no 
fear! 

Franciscan.  The  devils  believe  also,  and  tremble! — Fare- 
well! [He  goes  out. 


l,(i  ADVENT  act  i 

Judge.  [To  his  wife)  What  did  he  say  to  you? 

Old  Lady.  You  think  I'll  tell?  What  did  he  have  to  say 
to  you? 

Judge.  And  you  think  I'll  tell? 

Old  Lady.  Are  you  going  to  keep  any  secrets  from  me? 

Judge.  And  how  about  you?  It's  what  you  have  always 
done,  but  I'll  get  to  the  bottom  of  your  tricks  some  time. 

Old  Lady.  Just  wait  a  little,  and  I'll  figure  out  where  you 
keep  the  money  that  is  missing. 

Judge.  So  you  are  hiding  money,  too!  Now  there  is  no 
longer  any  use  in  playing  the  hypocrite — just  let  yourself  be 
seen  in  all  your  abomination,  you  witch! 

Old  Lady.  I  think  you  have  lost  your  reason — not  that 
it  was  much  to  keep!  But  you  might  at  least  preserve  an 
appearance  of  decency,  if  you  can 

Judge.  And  you  might  preserve  your  beauty — if  you  can! 
And  your  perennial  youth — ha,  ha,  ha!  And  your  righteous- 
ness! You  must  have  known  how  to  bewitch  people,  and 
hoodwink  them,  for  now  I  see  how  horribly  ugly  and  old 
you  are. 

Old  Lady.  [On  whom  the  spot  of  light  now  appears]  Woe! 
It  is  burning  me! 

Judge.  There  I  see  you  as  you  really  are!  [The  spot  jumps 
to  the  Judge]  Woe!     It  is  burning  me  now! 

Old  Lady.  And  how  you  look!  [Both  withdraw  to  the  right. 
The  Neighbour  and  Amelia  enter  from  the  left. 

Neighbour.  Yes,  child,  there  is  justice,  both  human  and 
divine,  but  we  must  have  patience. 

Amelia.  I  am  willing  to  believe  that  justice  is  done,  in 
>pit<-  of  all  appearances  to  the  contrary.  But  I  cannot  love 
my  mother,  and  I  have  never  been  able  to  do  so.  There  is 
something  within  me  that  keeps  telling  me  that  she  is  not 
<»nly  indifferent  to  me  but  actually  hostile. 


act  i  ADVENT  121 

Neighbour.  So  you  have  found  it  out? 

Amelia.  Why — she  hates  me,  and  a  mother  couldn't  do 
that! 

Neighbour.  Well,  well! 

Amelia.  And  I  suffer  from  not  being  able  to  do  my  duty 
as  a  child  and  love  her. 

Neighbour.  Well,  as  that  has  made  you  suffer,  then  you 
will  soon — in  the  hour  of  retribution — learn  the  great  secret 
of  your  life. 

Amelia.  And  I  could  stand  everything,  if  she  were  only 
kind  to  my  children. 

Neighbour.  Don't  fear  on  that  account,  for  her  power  is 
now  ended.  The  measure  of  her  wickedness  has  been  heaped 
full  and  is  now  overflowing. 

Amelia.  Do  you  think  so?  But  this  very  day  she  tore 
my  Adolph  away  from  me,  and  now  she  has  humiliated  me 
still  further  by  dressing  me  as  a  servant  girl  and  making  me 
do  the  work  in  the  kitchen. 

Neighbour.  Patience! 

Amelia.  Yes,  so  you  say!  Oh,  I  can  understand  deserved 
suffering,  but  to  suffer  without  cause 

Neighbour.  My  dear  child,  the  prisoners  in  the  peniten- 
tiary are  suffering  justly,  so  there  is  no  honour  in  that;  but 
to  be  permitted  to  suffer  unjustly,  that's  a  grace  and  a  trial 
out  of  which  steadfast  souls  bring  home  golden  fruits. 

Amelia.  You  speak  so  beautifully  that  everything  you 
say  seems  true  to  me. — Hush!  There  are  the  children — ■ 
and  I  don't  want  them  to  see  me  dressed  like  this. 

She  and  the  Neighbour  take  up  a  position  where  they 

are  hidden  by  a  tall  shrub. 
Eric  and  Thyra  enter;  the  spot  of  light  rests  now  on 
one  of  them  and  now  on  the  other. 

Eric.  Look  at  the  sun  spot! 


[22  ADVENT  act  i 

Thyra.  Oh,  you  beautiful  sun!     But  didn't  he  go  to  I><-<1 

a  while  ago? 

Eric.  Perhaps  he  is  allowed  to  stay  up  longer  than  usual 
because  he  has  been  very  good  all  day. 

Thyra.  But  how  could  the  sun  be  good?  Now  you  are 
stupid,  Eric. 

Eric.  Of  course  the  sun  can  be  good — doesn't  he  make 
the  grapes  and  the  peaches? 

Thyra.  But  if  he  is  so  good,  then  he  might  also  give  us  a 
peach. 

Eric.  So  he  will,  if  we  only  wait  a  little.  Aren't  there  any 
on  the  ground  at  all? 

Thyra.  [Looking]  No,  but  perhaps  we  might  get  one 
from  the  tree. 

Eric.  No,  grandmother  won't  let  us. 

Thyra.  Grandmother  has  said  that  we  mustn't  shake  the 
tree,  but  I  thought  we  could  play  around  the  tree  so  that 
one  might  fall  down  anyhow — of  itself. 

Eric.  Now  you  are  stupid,  Thyra.  That  would  be  ex- 
actly the  same  thing.  [Looking  up  at  the  tree]  Oh,  if  only  a 
peach  would  fall  down! 

Thyra.  None  will  fall  unless  you  shake. 
Eric.  You  mustn't  talk  like  that,  Thyra,  for  that  is  a  sin. 
Thyra.  Let's  pray  God  to  let  one  fall. 

Eric.  One  shouldn't  pray  God  for  anything  nice — that  is, 
to  eat! — Oh,  little  peach,  won't  you  fall?  I  want  you  to 
fall!  [A  peach  falls  from  the  tree,  and  Eric  picks  it  up]  There, 
\\  hat  a  nice  tree! 

Thyra.  But  now  you  must  give  me  half,  for  it  was  I  who 

"-aid  that  the  tree  had  to  be  shaken 

Old  Lady.  [Enters  with  a  big  birch  rod]  So  you  have  been 
sinking  the  tree — now  you'll  see  what  you'll  get,  you  nasty 
children 


act  i  ADVENT  123 

Eric.  No,  grandmother,  we  didn't  shake  the  tree! 

Old  Lady.  So  you  are  lying,  too.  Didn't  I  hear  Thyra 
say  that  the  tree  had  to  be  shaken?  Come  along  now,  and 
I'll  lock  you  up  in  the  cellar  where  neither  sun  nor  moon  is 
to  be  seen 

Amelia.  [Coming  forward]  The  children  are  innocent, 
mother. 

Old  Lady.  That's  a  fine  thing — to  stand  behind  the  bushes 
listening,  and  then  to  teach  one's  own  children  how  to  lie 
besides ! 

Neighbour.  [Appearing]  Nothing  has  been  spoken  here 
but  the  truth,  madam. 

Old  Lady.  Two  witnesses  behind  the  bushes — exactly  as 
if  we  were  in  court.  But  I  know  the  tricks,  I  tell  you,  and 
what  I  have  heard  and  seen  is  sufficient  evidence  for  me. — 
Come  along,  you  brats! 

Amelia.  This  is  sinful  and  shameful 

The  Neighbour  signals  to  Amelia  by  putting  his  fin- 
ger across  his  lips. 

Amelia.  [Goes  up  to  her  children]  Don't  cry,  children! 
Obey  grandmother  now — there  is  nothing  to  be  afraid  of. 
It  is  better  to  suffer  evil  than  to  do  it,  and  I  know  that  you 
are  innocent.  May  God  preserve  you!  And  don't  forget 
your  evening  prayer! 

The  Old  Lady  goes  out  with  the  children. 

Amelia.  Belief  comes  so  hard,  but  it  is  sweet  if  you  can 
achieve  it. 

Neighbour.  Is  it  so  hard  to  believe  that  God  is  good — 
at  the  very  moment  when  his  kind  intentions  are  most  ap- 
parent? 

Amelia.  Give  me  a  great  and  good  word  for  the  night,  so 
that  I  may  sleep  on  it  as  on  a  soft  pillow. 


124  ADVENT  act  i 

Neighbour.  You    shall   have   it.     Let  me  think   a  mo- 
ment.— This  is  it:  Isaac  was  to  be  sacrificed 

Amelia.  Oh,  no,  no! 

Neighbour.  Quiet,  now! — Isaac  was  to  be  sacrificed,  but 
he  never  was! 

Amelia.  Thank  you!     Thank  you!     And  good  night! 

[She  goes  out  to  the  right. 
Neighbour.  Good  night,  my  child! 

[He  goes  slowly  out  by  a  path  leading  to  the  rear. 
The  Procession  of  Shadows  enters  from  tfie  mauso- 
leum and  moves  without   a  sound  across  the  stage 
toward  the  right;   between  every  two  figures  there  is 
a  distance  of  five  steps: 
Death  ivith  its  scythe  and  hour-glass. 
The  Lady  in  White — blond,  tall,  and  slender:  on  one 
of  her  fingers  she  wears  a  ring  with  a  green  stone  that 
seems  to  emit  rays  of  light. 
The  Goldsmith,  with  the  counterfeit  monstrance. 
The  Beheaded  Sailor,  carrying  his  head  in  one  hand. 
The  Auctioneer,  with  hammer  and  note-book. 
The  Chimney-Sweep,  with  rope,  scraper,  and  broom. 
The  Fool,  carrying  his  cap  with  the  ass's  ears  and  bells 
at  the  top  of  a  pole,  across  which  is  placed  a  signboard 
with  the  word  "Caul"  on  it. 
The  Surveyor,  with  measuring  rod  and  tripod. 
The  Magistrate,  dressed  and  made  up  like  tlie  Judge; 
In  carries  a  rope  around  his  neck;  and  his  right  hand 
is  raised  to  slww  that  the  forefinger  is  missing. 
The  stage  is  darkened  at  the  beginning  of  the  procession 

and  remains  empty  while  it  lasts. 
When  it  is  over,  the  Judge  enters  from  the  left,  followed 
by  tin  ( )i.n  Lady. 
.Ii  dob.   Why  are  ,\ou  playing  the  ghost  at  this  late  hour? 


ACT  I 


ADVENT  125 


Old  Lady.  And  how  about  yourself? 

Judge.  I  couldn't  sleep. 

Old  Lady.  Why  not? 

Judge.  Don't  know.  Thought  I  heard  children  crying 
in  the  cellar. 

Old  Lady.  That's  impossible.  Oh,  no,  I  suppose  you 
didn't  dare  to  sleep  for  fear  I  might  be  prying  in  your  hiding- 
places. 

Judge.  And  you  feared  I  might  be  after  yours!  A  pleas- 
ant old  age  this  will  be  for  Philemon  and  Baucis! 

Old  Lady.  At  least  no  gods  will  come  to  visit  us. 

Judge.  No,  I  shouldn't  call  them  gods. 

At  this  moment  the  Procession  begins  all  over  again, 
starting  from  the  mausoleum  as  before  and  moving  in 
silence  toward  the  right. 

Old  Lady.  O  Mary,  Mother  of  God,  what  is  this? 

Judge.  Merciful  heavens!  [Pause] 

Old  Lady.  Pray!     Pray  for  us! 

Judge.  I  have  tried,  but  I  cannot. 

Old  Lady.  Neither  can  I!  The  words  won't  come — and 
no  thoughts!  [Pause] 

Judge.  How  does  the  Lord's  Prayer  begin? 

Old  Lady.  I  can't  remember,  but  I  knew  it  this  morning. 
[Pause]  Who  is  the  woman  in  white? 

Judge.  It  is  she — Amelia's  mother — whose  very  memory 
we  wanted  to  kill. 

Old  Lady.  Are  these  shadows  or  ghosts,  or  nothing  but 
our  own  sickly  dreams? 

Judge.  [Takes  up  his  pocket-knife]  They  are  delusions  sent 
by  the  devil.  I'll  throw  cold  steel  after  them. — Open  the 
knife  for  me,  Caroline!     I  can't,  don't  you  see? 

Old  Lady.  Yes,  I  see — it  isn't  easy  without  a  forefinger. 
— But  I  can't  either!  [She  drops  the  knife] 


126  ADVENT  act  i 

Judge.  Woe  to  us!     Steel  won't  help  here!     Woe!    There's 
the  beheaded  sailor!     Let  us  get  away  from  here! 

Old  Lady.  That's  easy  to  say,  but  I  can't  move  from  the 

spot. 

Judge.  And  I  seem  to  be  rooted  to  the  ground. — No,  I  am 
not  going  to  look  at  it  any  longer! 

[He  covers  his  eyes  with  one  hand. 
Old  Lady.  But  what  is  it?     Mists  out  of  the  earth,  or 
shadows  cast  by  the  trees? 

Judge.  No,  it's  our  own  vision  that  plays  us  false.     There 
I  go  now,  and  yet  I  am  standing  here.     Just  let  me  get  a 
good  night's  sleep,  and  I'll  laugh  at  the  whole  thing! — The 
<lr\il!     Is  this  masquerade  never  going  to  end? 
Old  Lady.  But  why  do  you  look  at  it  then? 
Judge.  I  see  it  right  through  my  hand —     I  see  it  in  the 
dark,  with  my  eyelids  closed! 
Old  Lady.  But  now7  it's  over. 

Tfie  Procession  has  passed  out. 
Judge.  Praised  be — why,  I  can't  get  the  word  out! — I 
wonder  if  it  will  be  possible  to  sleep  to-night?     Perhaps  we 
had  better  send  for  the  doctor? 

Old  Lady.  Or  Father  Colomba,  perhaps? 
Judge.  He  can't   help,  and   he  who  could  won't! — Well, 
let  the  Other  One  do  it  then! 

The  Other  One  enters  from  behind  the  Lady  Chapel. 
He  is  extremely  thin  and  moth-eaten.  His  thin,  snuff- 
coloured  hair  is  parted  in  the  middle.  His  straggly 
beard  looks  as  if  it  were  made  out  of  tow.  His  clothes 
are  shabby  and  outgrown,  and  he  seems  to  wear  no 
linen.  A  red  woollen  muffler  is  wound  around  his 
neck.  He  wears  spectacles  and  carries  a  piece  of 
rattan  under  his  arm. 

Judge.  Who  is  that? 


act  i  ADVEN  T  127 

The  Other  One.  [In  a  low  voire]  I  am  the  Other  One! 

Judge.  [To  his  wife]  Make  the  sign  of  the  cross!     I  can't! 

The  Other  One.  The  sign  of  the  cross  does  not  frighten 
me,  for  I  am  undergoing  my  ordeal  merely  that  I  may  wear  it. 

Judge.  Who  are  you? 

The  Other  One.  I  became  the  Other  One  because  I  wanted 
to  be  the  First  One.  I  was  a  man  of  evil,  and  my  punish- 
ment is  to  serve  the  good. 

Judge.  Then  you  are  not  the  Evil  One? 

The  Other  One.  I  am.  And  it  is  my  task  to  torment 
you  into  finding  the  cross,  before  which  we  are  to  meet  some 
time. 

Old  Lady.  [To  Judge]  Don't  listen  to  him!  Tell  him 
to  go! 

The  Other  One.  It  won't  help.  You  have  called  me,  and 
you'll  have  to  bear  with  me. 

The  Judge  and  the  Old  Lady  go  out  to  the  left. 
The  Other  One  goes  after  them. 

Curtain. 


ACT    II 

A  huge  room  with  whitewashed  walls  and  a  ceiling  of  darkened 
beams.  The  windows  are  small  and  deeply  set,  with  bars 
on  the  outside.  The  room  is  crowded  with  furniture  of 
every  kind:  wardrobes,  chiffoniers,  dressers,  chests,  tables. 
On  tlie  furniture  are  placed  silver  services,  candelabra, 
candlesticks,  pitchers,  table  ware,  vases,  statues,  etc. 

There  is  a  door  in  the  rear.  Portraits  of  the  Judge  and  tlie  Old 
Lady  hang  on  the  rear  wall,  one  on  either  side  of  the  door. 

A  harp  stands  beside  a  small  sewing-table  with  an  easy  chair 
near  it. 

Amelia  is  standing  before  a  table  at  the  right,  trying  to  clean  a 
coffee-set  of  silver. 

The  sun  is  shining  in  through  the  windows  in  the  background. 

Neighbour.  [Enters]  Well,  child,  how  is  your  patience? 

Amelia.  Thank  you,  neighbour,  it  might  be  worse.  But 
I  never  had  a  worse  job  than  this  silver  service  here.  I  have 
worked  at  it  for  half  an  hour  and  cannot  get  it  clean. 

Neighbour.  That's  strange,  but  I  suppose  there  are  rea- 
sons for  it,  as  the  Judge  says.     Could  you  sleep  last  night? 

Amelia.  Thank  you,  I  slept  very  well.  But  do  you  know 
that  father  spent  the  whole  night  in  the  vineyard  with  his 
rattle ? 

Neighboub.  Yes,  I  heard  him.  What  kind  of  foolish  idea 
was  thai  ? 

Amelia.  He  thought  he  heard  the  starlings  that  had  come 
to  cat  the  grapes. 

128 


act  ii  ADVENT  129 

Neighbour.  Poor  fellow!  As  if  the  starlings  were  abroad 
nights! — And  the  children? 

Amelia.  Well,  the  children — she  is  still  keeping  them  in 
the  cellar,  and  I  hope  she  won't  forget  to  give  them  something 
to  eat. 

Neighbour.  He  who  feeds  the  birds  will  not  forget  your 
children,  my  dear  Amelia.  And  now  I'll  tell  you  something 
which,  as  a  rule,  shouldn't  be  told.  There  is  a  small  hole  in 
the  wall  between  the  Judge's  wine-cellar  and  my  own.  When 
I  was  down  there  this  morning  to  get  the  place  aired  out,  I 
heard  voices.  And  when  I  looked  through  the  hole,  I  saw 
Eric  and  Thyra  playing  with  a  strange  little  boy. 

Amelia.  You  could  see  them,  neighbour?     And 

Neighbour.  They  were  happy  and  well 

Amelia.  Who  was  their  playmate? 

Neighbour.  That's  more  than  I  can  guess. 

Amelia.  This  whole  dreadful  house  is  nothing  but  secrets. 

Neighbour.  That  is  true,  but  it  is  not  for  us  to  inquire 
into  them. 

Judge.  [Enters,  carrying  a  rattle]  So  you  are  in  here  con- 
spiring, neighbour!  Is  it  not  enough  that  your  evil  eye  has 
brought  the  starlings  into  my  vineyard?  For  you  do  have 
the  evil  eye — but  we'll  soon  put  it  out.  I  know  a  trick  or  two 
myself. 

Neighbour.  [To  Amelia]  Is  it  worth  while  to  set  him 
right?    One  who  doesn't  believe  what  is  told  him !  [He  goes  out. 

Amelia.  No,  this  is  beyond  us! 

Judge.  Tell  me,  Amelia,  have  you  noticed  where  your 
mother  is  looking  for  things  when  she  believes  herself  to  be 
alone? 

Amelia.  No,  father. 

Judge.  I  can  see  by  your  eyes  that  you  know.  You  were 
looking  this  way.  [He  goes  up  to  a  chest  of  drawers  and  hap- 


ISO  ADVENT  act  ii 

pens  to  get  into  the  sunlight]  Damn  the  sun  that  is  always  burn- 
in-  me!  [He  putts  down  one  of  the  shades  and  returns  to  the 
cheat  of  drawers]  This  must  be  the  place!— Now,  let  me  see! 
The  stupidest  spot  is  also  the  cleverest,  so  that's  where  I  must 
luok — ^  in  this  box  of  perfume,  for  instance —  And  right  I 
was!  [He  pulls  out  a  number  of  bank-notes  and  stocks]  What's 
this?  Twelve  English  bills  of  a  pound  each.  Twelve  of 
1 1 Hin!— Oho!  Then  it  is  easy  to  imagine  the  rest.  [Pushes 
the  bills  and  securities  into  his  pockets]  But  what  is  it  I  hear? 
There  are  the  starlings  again!  [He  goes  to  an  open  window  and 
begins  to  play  the  rattle]  Get  away  there! 

Old  Lady.  [Enters]  Are  you  still  playing  the  ghost? 

Judge.  Are  you  not  in  the  kitchen? 

Old  Lady.  No,  as  you  see,  I  am  not.  [To  Amelia]  Are 
you  not  done  with  the  cleaning  yet? 

Amelia.  No,  mother,  I'll  never  get  done  with  it.  The 
silver  won't  clean,  and  I  don't  think  it  is  real. 

Old  Lady.  Not  real?  Let  me  see! — Why,  indeed,  it's 
quite  black!  [To  the  Judge,  who  in  the  meantime  has  pulled 
down  another  shade]  Where  did  you  get  this  set  from? 

Judge.  That  one?     Why,  it  came  from  an  estate. 

Old  Lady.  For  your  services  as  executor!  What  you  got 
was  like  what  you  gave! 

Judge.  You  had  better  not  make  any  defamatory  remarks, 
for  they  are  punishable  under  the  law. 

Old  Lady.  Are  you  crazy,  or  was  there  anything  crazy 
about  my  remark? 

Judge.  And  for  that  matter,  it  is  silver — sterling  silver. 

Old  Lady.  Then  it  must  be  Amelia's  fault. 

A  VoiCB.  [Coming  through  the  window  from  the  outside]  The 
Judge  can  turn  white  into  black,  but  he  can't  turn  black  into 
white! 

Judge.  Who  said  that? 


ACT   II 


ADVENT  131 


Old  Lady.  It  seemed  as  if  one  of  the  starlings  had  been 
speaking. 

Judge.  [Pulling  down  the  remaining  shade]   Now  the  sun 
is  here,  and  a  while  ago  it  seemed  to  be  over  there. 

Old  Lady.  [To  Amelia]  Who  was  it  that  spoke? 

Amelia.  I  think  it  was  that  strange  school-teacher  with 
the  red  muffler. 

Judge.  Ugh !     Let  us  talk  of  something  else. 

Servant  Girl.  [Enters]  Dinner  is  served. 

[She  goes  out;  a  pause  follows. 

Old  Lady.  You  go  down  and  eat,  Amelia. 

Amelia.  Thank  you,  mother.  [She  goes  out. 

The  Judge  sits  down  on  a  chair  close  to  one  of  the  cJiests. 

Old  Lady.  [Sliding  up  to  the  chest  of  drawers  where  tlie  box 
of  perfume  stands]  Are  you  not  going  to  eat  anything? 

Judge.  No,  I  am  not  hungry.     How  about  you? 

Old  Lady.  I  have  just  eaten.  [Pause. 

Judge.   [Takes  a  piece  of  bread  from  his  pocket]  Then  you'll 
excuse  me,  I'm  sure. 

Old  Lady.  There's  a  roast  of  venison  on  the  table. 

Judge.  You  don't  say  so! 

Old  Lady.  Do  you  think  I  poison  the  food? 

Judge.  Yes,  it  tasted  of  carbolic  acid  this  morning. 

Old  Lady.  And  what  I  ate  had  a  sort  of  metallic  taste 

Judge.  If  I  assure  you  that  I  have  put  nothing  whatever 
in  your  food 

Old  Lady.  Then  I  don't  believe  you.     But  I  can  assure 


you- 


Judge.  And  I  won't  believe  it.  [Eating  his  bread]  Roast 
of  venison  is  a  good  thing — I  can  smell  it  from  here — but 
bread  isn't  bad  either.  [Pause. 

Old  Lady.  Why  are  you  sitting  there  watching  that  chest? 


132  ADVENT  act  n 

Judge.  For  the  same  reason  that  makes  you  guard  those 
perfumes. 
Old  Lady.  So  you  have  been  there,  you  sneak-thief! 

Judge.  Ghoul! 

Old  Lady.  To  think  of  it — such  words  between  us!     Us! 

[She  begins  to  weep. 

Judge.  Yes,  the  world  is  evil,  and  so  is  man. 

Old  Lady.  Yes,  you  may  well  say  so — and  ungrateful 
above  all.  Ungrateful  children  rob  you  of  the  rent;  ungrate- 
ful grandchildren  rob  the  fruit  from  the  trees.  You  are 
right,  indeed:  the  world  is  evil 

Judge.  I  ought  to  know,  I  who  have  had  to  witness  all 
the  rottenness,  and  who  have  been  forced  to  pass  the  death 
sentence.  That  is  why  the  mob  hates  me,  just  as  if  I  had 
made  the  laws 

Old  Lady.  It  doesn't  matter  what  the  people  say,  if  you 
have  only  a  clean  conscience —  [Three  loud  knocks  are  heard 
from  the  inside  of  tlw  biggest  wardrobe]  What  was  that?  Who 
is  i  here? 

Judge.  Oh,  it  was  that  wardrobe.  It  always  cracks  when 
there  is  rain  coming.       [Three  distinct  knocks  are  heard  again. 

Old  Lady.  It's  some  kind  of  performance  started  by  that 
strolling  charlatan. 

The  cover  of  the  coffee-pot  which  Amelia  was  cleaning, 
opens  and  drops  down  again  with  a  bang;  this  hap- 
pens several  times  in  succession. 

Judge.  What  was  that,  then? 

Old  Lady.  Oh,  yes,  it's  that  same  juggler.  He  can  play 
tricks,  but  he  can't  scare  me.        [The  coffee-pot  acts  as  before. 

Judge.  Do  you  think  he  is  one  of  those  mesmerists? 

Old  Lady.  Well,  whatever  it  happens  to  be  called 

Judge.  If  that's  so,  how  can  he  know  our  private  secrets? 


act  n 


ADVENT  138 


Old  Lady.  Secrets?  What  do  you  mean  by  that? 

A  clock  begins  to  strike  and  keeps  it  up  as  if  it  never 
meant  to  stop. 
Judge.  Now  I  am  getting  scared. 

Old  Lady.  Then  Old  Nick  himself  may  take  me  if  I  stay 
here  another  minute!  [Tlie  spot  of  sunlight  appears  suddenly  on 
the  portrait  of  the  Old  Lady]  Look!  He  knows  that  secret, 
too! 

Judge.  You  mean  that  there  is  a  portrait  of  her  behind 
yours? 

Old  Lady.  Come  away  from  here  and  let  us  go  down  and 
eat.     And  let  us  see  whether  we  can't  sell  off  the  house  and 

all  the  rest  at  auction 

Judge.  You  are  right — sell  off  the  whole  caboodle  and 
start  a  new  life! — And  now  let  us  go  down  and  eat. 
The  Other  One  appears  in  the  doorway. 
The  Judge  and  the  Old  Lady  draw  back  from  him. 
Judge.  That's  an  ordinary  human  being! 
Old  Lady.  Speak  to  him! 

Judge.  [To  The  Other  One]  Who  are  you,  sir? 
The  Other  One.  I  have  told  you  twice.     That  you  don't 
believe  me  is  a  part  of  your  punishment,  for  if  you  could  be- 
lieve, your  sufferings  would  be  shortened  by  it. 

Judge.  [To  his  wife]  It's — him — sure  enough!  For  I  feel 
as  if  I  were  turning  into  ice.  How  are  we  to  get  rid  of  him? 
— Why,  they  say  that  the  unclean  spirits  cannot  bear  the 
sound  of  music.     Play  something  on  the  harp,  Caroline. 

Though  badly  frightened,  the  Old  Lady  sits  down  at 
the  table  on  which  the  harp  stands  and  begins  to  play 
a  slow  prelude  in  a  minor  key. 
The  Other  One  listens  reverently  and  with  evident 
emotion. 
Old  Lady.  [To  the  Judge]  Is  he  gone? 


134  A  1)  V  E  X  T  act  n 

The  Other  One.  I  thank  you  for  the  music,  madam.  It 
lulls  the  pain  and  awakens  memories  of  better  things  even 
in  a  lost  soul-  Thank  you,  madam! — Speaking  of  the  auc- 
tion, I  think  you  are  doing  right,  although,  in  my  opinion, 
an  honest  declaration  of  bankruptcy  would  be  still  better — 
Yes,  surrender  your  goods,  and  let  every  one  get  back  his 
own. 

Judge.  Bankruptcy)'     I  have  no  debts ■ 

The  Other  One.  No  debts! 

Old  Lady.  My  husband  has  no  debts! 

The  Other  One.  No  debts!  That  would  be  happiness, 
indeed! 

Judge.  Well,  that's  the  truth!  But  other  people  are  in 
debt  to  me 

The  Other  One.  Forgive  them  then! 

Judge.  This  is  not  a  question  of  pardon,  but  of  pay- 
ment  

The  Other  One.  All  right!  Then  you'll  be  made  to  pay! 
— For  the  moment — farewell!  But  we'll  meet  frequently, 
and  the  last  time  at  the  great  auction!     [He  goes  out  baclaoard. 

Judge.  He's  afraid  of  the  sun — he,  too!     Ha-ha! 

The  Other  One.  Yes,  for  some  time  yet.  But  once  I 
have  accustomed  myself  to  the  light,  I  shall  hate  darkness. 

[He  disappears. 

Old  Lady.  [To  the  Judge]  Do  you  really  think  he  is — 
the  Other  One? 

Judge.  Of  course,  that's  not  the  way  he  is  supposed  to 
look,  but  then  times  are  changing  and  we  with  them.  They 
used  to  say  that  he  had  gold  and  fame  to  give  away,  but  this 
fellow  goes  around  dunning 

Old  Lady.  Oh,  he's  a  sorry  lot,  and  a  charlatan — that's 
all!  A  milksop  who  doesn't  dare  to  bite,  no  matter  how 
much    he    would    like   to! 


act  ii  ADVENT  1:5., 

The  Other  One.  [Standing  in  the  doorway  again]  Take 
care,  I  tell  you!     Take  care! 

Judge.  [Raising  his  right  hand]  Take  care  yourself! 

The  Other  One.  [Pointing  at  the  Judge  with  one  hand  as 
if  it  were  a  revolver]  Shame ! 

Judge.  [Unable  to  move]  Woe  is  me! 

The  Other  One.  You  have  never  believed  in  anything 
good.  Now  you  shall  have  to  believe  in  the  Evil  One.  He 
who  is  all  goodness  can  harm  nobody,  you  see,  and  so  he 
leaves  that  to  such  villains  as  myself.  But  for  the  sake  of 
greater  effectiveness,  you  two  must  torture  yourselves  and 
each  other. 

Old  Lady.  [Kneeling  before  The  Other  One]  Spare  us! 
Help  us!     Mercy! 

The  Other  One.  [With  a  gesture  as  if  he  were  tearing  his 
clothes]  Get  up,  woman!  Woe  is  me!  There  is  One,  and 
One  only,  to  whom  you  may  pray!  Get  up  now,  or —  Yes, 
now  you  believe,  although  I  don't  wear  a  red  cloak,  and  don't 
carry  sword  or  purse,  and  don't  crack  any  jokes — but  be- 
ware of  taking  me  in  jest!  I  am  serious  as  sin  and  stern  as 
retribution!  I  have  not  come  to  tempt  you  with  gold  and 
fame,  but  to  chastise  you  with  rods  and  scorpions —  [The 
clock  begins  to  strike  again;  the  stage  turns  dark]  Your  time 
is  nearly  up.  Therefore,  put  your  house  in  order — because 
die  you  must!  [A  noise  as  of  thunder  is  heard]  Whose  voice  is 
speaking  now?  Do  you  think  he  can  be  scared  off  with  your 
rattle  when  he  comes  sweeping  across  your  vineyard?  Storm 
and  Hail  are  his  names;  destruction  nestles  under  his  wings, 
and  in  his  claws  he  carries  punishment.  Put  on  your  caul 
now,  and  don  your  good  conscience. 

[The  rattling  of  the  hail-storm  is  heard  outside. 

Judge.  Mercy! 

The  Other  One.  Yes,  if  you  promise  repentance. 


136                             ADVENT  act  ii 

Judge.  I  promise  on  my  oath 


The  Other  One.  You  can  take  no  oath,  for  you  have 
already  perjured  yourself.  But  promise  first  of  all  to  set 
the  children  free — and  then  all  the  rest! 

Judge.  I  promise!  Before  the  sun  has  set,  the  children 
shall  be  here! 

The  Other  One.  That's  the  first  step  ahead,  but  if  you 
turn  back,  then  you'll  see  that  I  am  as  good  as  my  name, 
which  is — Legion! 

He  raises  the  rattan,  and  at  that  moment  the  Judge  be- 
comes able  to  move  again. 

Curtain. 


ACT   III 

A  wine-cellar,  with  rows  of  casks  along  both  side  walls.     The 

doorway  in  the  rear  is  closed  by  an  iron  door. 
Every  cask  is  marked  with  the  name  of  the  wine  kept  in  it. 

Those  nearest  the  foreground  have  small  shelves  above  the 

taps,  and  the  shelves  hold  glasses. 
At  the  right,  in  the  foreground,  stands  a  wine-press  and  near  it 

are  a  couple  of  straw-bottomed  chairs. 
Bottles,  funnels,  siphons,  crates,  etc.,  are  scattered  about  the 

place. 
Eric  and  Thyra  are  seated  by  the  wine-press. 

Eric.  I  think  it's  awfully  dull. 

Thyra.  I  think  grandmother  is  nasty. 

Eric.  You  mustn't  talk  like  that. 

Thyra.  No,  perhaps  not,  but  she  is  nasty. 

Eric.  You  mustn't,  Thyra,  for  then  the  little  boy  won't 
come  and  play  with  us  again. 

Thyra.  Then  I  won't  say  it  again.     I  only  wish  it  wasn't 
so  dark. 

Eric.  Don't  you  remember,  Thyra,  that  the  boy  said  we 
shouldn't  complain 

Thyra.  Then  I  won't  do  it  any  more —  [The  spot  of  sun- 
light appears  on  the  ground]  Oh,  look  at  the  sun-spot! 

[She  jumps  up  and  places  her  foot  on  the  light. 

Eric.  You  mustn't  step  on  the  sun,  Thyra.     That's  a  sin! 

Thyra.  I  didn't  mean  to  step  on  him.     I  just  wanted  to 

137 


138  ADVENT  act  in 

have  him.     Now  see — I  have  him  in  my  arms,  and  I  can  pat 
him. — Look!     Now  he's  kissing  me  right  on  the  mouth. 

The  Playmate  enters  from  behind  one  of  the  casks;  he 

wears  a  ivhite  gar  mod  reaching  below  his  knees,  and 

a  blue  scarf  around  the  waist;  on  his  feet  are  sandals; 

he  is  blond,  and  wfien  he  appears  the  cellar  grows 

lighter. 

Eric.  [Goes  to  meet  him  and  shakes  hands  with  him]  Hello, 

little  boy! — Come  and  shake  hands,  Thyra! — What's  your 

name,  boy?     You  must  tell  us  to-day. 

The  Playmate  merely  looks  at  him. 
Thyra.  You  shouldn't  be  so  forward,  Eric,  for  it  makes 
him  bashful. — But  tell  me,  little  boy,  who  is  your  papa? 

Playmate.  Don't  be  so  curious.  When  you  know  me 
better,  you'll  learn  all  those  things. — But  let  us  play  now. 

Thyra.  Yes,  but  nothing  instructive,  for  that  is  so  tedious. 
I  want  it  just  to  be  nice. 

Playmate.  [Smiling]  Shall  I  tell  a  story? 

Thyra.  Yes,  but  not  out  of  the  Bible,  for  all  those  we 

know  by  heart 

The  Playmate  smiles  again. 

Eric  You  say  such  things,  Thyra,  that  he  gets  hurt 

Playmate.  No,  my  little  friends,  you  don't  hurt  me — 
But  now,  if  you  are  really  good,  we'll  go  and  play  in  the 

open 

Eric  Oh,  yes,  yes! — But  then,  you  know,  grandmother 

won't  let  us 

Playmate.  Yes,  your  grandmother  has  said  that  she 
wished  you  were  out,  and  so  we'll  go  before  she  changes  her 
mind.     Come  on  now! 

Thyra.  Oh,  what  fun!    Oh 

The  door  in  the  rear  flies  open  and  through  the  doorway 
is  seen  a  sunlit  field  planted  with  rye  ready  for  the 


act  in  ADVENT  lsg 

harvest.     Among  the  yellow  ears  grow  bachelor  s-but- 
tons  and  daisies. 
Playmate.  Come,  children!     Come  into  the  sunlight  and 
feel  the  joy  of  living! 

Thyra.  Can't  we  take  the  sun-spot  along?  It's  a  pity  to 
leave  it  here  in  the  darkness. 

Playmate.  Yes,  if  it  is  willing  to  go  with  you.     Call  it! 
Eric  and  Thyra  go  toward  the  door,  followed  by  the 
spot  of  light. 
Eric.  Isn't  it  a  nice  little  spot!  [Talks  to  the  spot  as  if  it 
were  a  cat]  Puss,  puss,  puss,  puss ! 

Playmate.  Take  it  up  on  your  arm,  Thyra,  for  I  don't 
think  it  can  get  over  the  threshold. 

Thyra  gets  the  spot  of  light  on  her  arm,  which  she  bends 

as  if  carrying  something. 
All  three  go  out;  the  door  closes  itself.     Pause. 
The  Judge  enters  with  a  lantern,  the  Old  Lady  with 
the  birch  rod. 
Old  Lady.  It's  cool  and  nice  here,  and  then  there  is  no 
sun  to  bother  you. 

Judge.  And  how  quiet  it  is.     But  where  are  the  children? 

[Both  look  for  the  children. 
Judge.  It  looks  as  if  they  had  taken  us  at  our  word. 
Old   Lady.  Us?     Please   observe   that   I   didn't   promise 
anything,  for  he — you  know — talked   only  to   you    toward 
the  end. 

Judge.  Perhaps,  but  this  time  we  had  better  obey,  for  I 
don't  want  to  have  any  more  trouble  with  hail-storms  and 
such  things. — However,  the  children  are  not  here,  and  I  sup- 
pose they'll  come  back  when  they  get  hungry. 

Old  Lady.  And  I  wish  them  luck  when  they  do!  [The  rod 
is  snatched  out  of  her  hand  and  dances  across  the  floor;  finally 


140  ADVENT  act  in 

it  disappears  behind  one  of  the  casks]    Now   it's   beginning 
again. 

Judge.  Well,  why  don't  you  submit  and  do  as  he — you 
know  who! — says?  I,  for  my  part,  don't  dare  to  do  wrong 
any  longer.  The  growing  grapes  have  been  destroyed,  and 
we  must  take  pleasure  in  what  is  already  safe.  Come  here, 
Caroline,  and  let  us  have  a  glass  of  something  good  to  brace 
us  up!  [He  knocks  on  one  of  the  casks  and  draus  a  glass  of  wine 
from  it]  This  is  from  the  year  of  the  comet — anno  1869, 
when  the  big  comet  came,  and  everybody  said  it  meant  war. 
And,  of  course,  war  did  break  out. 

[lie  offers  a  filled  glass  to  his  wife. 

Old  Lady.  You  drink  first! 

Judge.  Well,  now — did  you  think  there  might  be  poison 
in  this,  too? 

Old  Lady.  No,  really,  I  didn't — but — we'll  never  again 
know  what  peace  is,  or  happiness! 

Judge.  Do  as  I  do:  submit!  [He  drinks. 

Old  Lady.  I  want  to,  and  I  try  to,  but  when  I  come  to 
think  how  badly  other  people  have  treated  us,  I  feel  that 
I  am  just  as  good  as  anybody  else.  [She  drinks]  That's  a 
very  fine  wine!  [She  sits  down. 

Judge.  The  wine  is  good,  and  it  makes  the  mind  easier. 

^  es,  the  wiseacres  say  that  we  are  rapscallions,  one  and  all, 
so  I  can't  see  what  right  anybody  has  to  go  around  finding 
fault  with  the  rest.  [He  drinks]  My  own  actions  have  always 
been  legal;  that  is,  in  keeping  with  prevailing  laws  and  con- 
stitutions. If  others  happened  to  be  ignorant  of  the  law, 
they  had  only  themselves  to  blame,  for  no  one  has  a  right  to 
ignorance  of  that  kind.  For  that  reason,  if  Adolph  does  not 
pay  the  rent,  it  is  lie  who  breaks  the  law,  and  not  I. 

Old  Lady.  And  yet  the  blame  falls  on  you,  and  you  are 
made  to  appear  lik<'  a  criminal.     Yes,  it  is  as  I  have  always 


act  m  ADVENT  141 

said:  there  is  no  justice  in  this  world.     If  you  had  done  right, 
you  should  have  brought  suit  against  Adolph  and  turned  out 

the  whole  family.     But  then  it  isn't  too  late  yet 

[She  drink*. 

Judge.  Well,  you  see,  if  I  were  to  carry  out  the  law  strictly, 
then  I  should  sue  for  the  annulment  of  his  marriage,  and  that 
would  cut  him  off  from  the  property 

Old  Lady.  Why  don't  you  do  it? 

Judge.  [Looking  around]  We-e-ell! — I  suppose  that  would 
settle  the  matter  once  for  all.  A  divorce  would  probably 
not  be  granted,  but  I  think  it  would  be  possible  to  get  the 
marriage  declared  invalid  on  technical  grounds 

Old  Lady.  And  if  there  be  no  such  grounds? 

Judge.  [Showing  the  influence  of  the  wine]  There  are  tech- 
nical grounds  for  everything,  if  you  only  look  hard  enough. 

Old  Lady.  Well,  then!  Think  of  it — how  that  good-for- 
nothing  is  wishing  the  life  out  of  us — but  now  he'll  see  how 
"the  natural  course  of  events"  makes  the  drones  take  to  the 
road 

Judge.  Ha-ha!  You're  right,  quite  right!  And  then,  you 
know,  when  I  think  it  over  carefully — what  reason  have  we 
for  self-reproach?  What  wrong  have  we  done?  It's  mean 
to  bring  up  that  about  the  monstrance— it  didn't  hurt  any- 
body, did  it?  And  as  for  my  being  guilty  of  perjury:  that's 
a  pure  lie.  I  got  blood-poison  in  the  finger — that's  all — and 
quite  a  natural  thing. 

Old  Lady.  Just  as  if  I  didn't  know  it.  And  I  may  as  well 
add  that  this  hail-storm  a  while  ago — why,  it  was  as  plain  a 
thing  as  if  it  had  been  foretold  in  the  Farmer's  Almanac! 

Judge.  Exactly!  That's  what  I  think  too.  And  for  that 
reason,  Caroline,  I  think  we  had  better  forget  all  that  fool 
talk — and  if  you  feel  as  I  do,  we'll  just  turn  to  another  priest 
and  get  him  to  consecrate  the  mausoleum. 


142  ADVENT  acthi 

Old  Lady.  Well,  why  shouldn't  we? 

Judge.  Yes,  why  shouldn't  we?   Perhaps  because  that  mes- 
tnerist  comes  here  and  talks  a  lot  of  superstitious  nonsense? 
Old  Lady.  Tell  me,  do  you  really  think  he  is  nothing  but 
a  mesmerist? 

Judge.  [Blustering]  That  fellow?     He's  a  first-class  charla- 
tan.    A  che-ar-la-tan ! 

Old  Lady.  [Looking  around]  I  am  not  so  sure. 
Judge.  But  I  am  sure.  Su-ure!  And  if  he  should  ever 
come  before  my  eyes  again — just  now,  for  instance — I'll 
drink  his  health  and  say:  here's  to  you,  old  humourist!  [As  he 
raises  the  glass,  it  is  torn  out  of  his  hand  and  is  seen  to  disap- 
pear through  the  trail]  What  was  that?  [The  lantern  goes  out. 
Old  Lady.  Help! 

[A  gust  of  wind  is  heard,  and  then  all  is  silence  again. 
Judge.  You  just  get   some   matches,  and  I'll  clear  this 
matter  up.     For  I  am  no  longer  afraid  of  anything.     Not  of 
anything! 

Old  Lady.    Oh,  don't,  don't! 

The  Other  One.  [Steps  from  behind  one  of  the  casks]  Now 
we'll  have  to  have  a  talk  in  private. 

Judge.  [Frightened]  Where  did  you  come  from? 
The  Other  One.  That  is  no  concern  of  yours. 
Judge.  [Straightening  himself  up]  What  kind  of  language 
is  that? 

Tin:  Other  One.  Your  own! — Off  with  your  cap!  [He 
lib  his  at  the  Judge,  ivhose  cap  is  lifted  off  his  head  and  falls 
In  the  ground]  Now  you  shall  hear  sentence  pronounced:  you 
have  wanted  to  sever  what  has  been  united  by  Him  whose 
name  I  may  not  mention.  Therefore  you  shall  be  separated 
from  li<r  who  ought  to  be  the  staff  of  your  old  age.  Alone 
you  musl  run  the  gauntlet.  Alone  you  must  bear  the  qualms 
<>f  sleepless  nights. 


act  ra  ADVENT  143 

Judge.  Is  that  mercy? 

The  Other  One.  It  is  justice;  it  is  the  law:  an  eye  for 
an  eye,  and  a  tooth  for  a  tooth!  The  gospel  has  a  different 
sound,  but  of  that  you  didn't  want  to  hear.  Now,  move 
along.  [He  beats  the  air  vrith  the  rattan. 

The  scene  changes  to  a  garden  with  cypresses  and  yew-trees 

clipped  in  the  shape  of  obelisks,  candelabra,   vases,   etc. 

Under  the  trees  grow  roses,   hollyhocks,  foxgloves,  etc.     At 

the  centre  of  it  is  a  spring  above  which  droops  a  gigantic 

fuchsia  in  full  bloom.1 

Back  of  the  garden  appears  a  field  of  rye,  all  yellotv  and  ready 
to  be  cut.  Bachelor  s-buttons  and  daisies  groiv  among  the 
rye.  A  scarecroio  hangs  in  the  middle  of  the  field.  The 
distant  background  is  formed  by  vineyards  and  light-col- 
oured rocks  with  beech  woods  and  ruined  castles  on  them. 

A  road  runs  across  the  stage  in  the  near  background.     At  the 
right  is  a  covered  Gothic  arcade.     In  front  of  this  stands  a 
statue  of  the  Madonna  with  the  Child. 
Eric  and  Thyra  enter  hand  in  hand  with  the  Playmate. 

Eric.  Oh,  how  beautiful  it  is! 

Thyra.  Who  is  living  here? 

Playmate.  Whoever  feels  at  home  has  his  home  here. 

Thyra.  Can  we  play  here? 

Playmate.  Anywhere  except  in  that  avenue  over  there 
to  the  right. 

Eric  And  may  we  pick  the  flowers? 

Playmate.  You  may  pick  any  flowers  you  want,  but  you 
mustn't  touch  the  tree  at  the  fountain. 

Thyra.  What  kind  of  tree  is  that? 

Eric.  Why,  you  know,  it  is  one  of  those  they  call  [lowering 
his  voice]  "Christ's  Blood-drops." 

1  The  Swedish  name  of  this  plant  is  "Christ's  Blood-drops." 


IU  ADVENT  act  iii 

Thyra.  You  should  cross  yourself,  Eric,  when  you  men- 
tion the  name  of  the  Lord. 

Eric.  [Makes  the  sign  of  the  cross]  Tell  me,  little  boy,  why 
mustn't  we  touch  the  tree? 

Thyra.  You  should  obey  without  asking  any  questions, 
Eric. — But  tell  me,  little  boy,  why  is  that  ugly  scarecrow 
hanging  there?     Can't  we  take  it  away? 

Playmate.  Yes,  indeed,  you  may,  for  then  the  birds  will 
come  and  sing  for  us. 

Eric  and  Thyra  run  into  the  rye-field  and  tear  down 
the  scarecrow. 

Eric.  Away  with  you,  you  nasty  old  scarecrow!  Come 
and  eat  now,  little  birds!  [The  Golden  Bird  comes  flying  from 
the  right  and  perches  on  the  fuchsia]  Oh,  see  the  Golden  Bird, 
Thyra! 

Thyra.  Oh,  how  pretty  it  is!     Does  it  sing,  too? 

[The  bird  calls  like  a  cuckoo. 

Eric.  Can  you  understand  what  the  bird  sings,  boy? 

Playmate.  No,  children,  the  birds  have  little  secrets  of 
their  own  which  they  have  a  right  to  keep  hidden. 

Thvra.  Of  course,  Eric,  don't  you  see,  otherwise  the 
children  could  tell  where  the  nests  are,  and  then  they  would 
take  away  the  eggs,  and  that  would  make  the  birds  sorry, 
and  they  couldn't  have  any  children  of  their  own. 

Eric.  Don't  talk  like  a  grown-up,  Thyra. 

Playmate.  [Putting  a  finger  across  his  lips]  Hush!  Some- 
l>ody  is  coming.  Now  let  us  see  if  he  likes  to  stay  with  us 
or  not. 

The   Chimney-Sweep   enters,   stops   in   surprise,  and 
begins  to  look  around. 

Playmate.  Well,  boy,  won't  you  come  and  play  with  us? 

Chimney-Sweep.  [Takes  off  his  cap;  speaks  bashfully]  Oh, 
you  don't  want  to  play  with  me. 


ACT  III 


ADVENT  145 


Playmate.  Why  shouldn't  we? 

Chimney-Sweep.  I  am  sooty  all  over.  And  besides  I 
don't  know  how  to  play — I  hardly  know  what  it  is. 

Thyra.  Think  of  it,  the  poor  boy  has  never  played. 

Playmate.  What  is  your  name? 

Chimney-Sweep.  My  name?     They  call  me  Ole — but 

Playmate.  But  what's  your  other  name? 

Chimney-Sweep.  Other  name?     I  have  none. 

Playmate.  But  your  papa's  name? 

Chimney-Sweep.  I  have  no  papa. 

Playmate.  And  your  mamma's? 

Chimney-Sweep.  I  don't  know. 

Playmate.  He  has  no  papa  or  mamma.  Come  to  the 
spring  here,  boy,  and  I'll  make  you  as  white  as  a  little  prince. 

Chimney-Sweep.  If  anybody  else  said  it,  I  shouldn't  be- 
lieve it 

Playmate.  Why  do  you  believe  it  then,  when  I  say  it? 

Chimney-Sweep.  I  don't  know,  but  I  think  you  look  as 
if  it  would  be  true. 

Playmate.  Give  the  boy  your  hand,  Thyra! — Would  you 
give  him  a  kiss,  too? 

Thyra.  [After  a  moment's  hesitation]  Yes,  when  you  ask  me! 

She  kisses  the  Chimney-Sweep.     Then  the  Playmate 

dips  his  hand  in  the  spring  and  sprays  a  little  water 

on  the  face  of  the  Chimney-Sweep,  whose  black  mask 

at  once  disappears,  leaving  his  face  whiie. 

Playmate.  Now  you  are  white  again.  And  now  you  must 
go  behind  that  rose-bush  there  and  put  on  new  clothes. 

Chimney-Sweep.  Why  do  I  get  all  this  which  I  don't 
deserve? 

Playmate.  Because  you  don't  believe  that  you  deserve  it. 

Chimney-Sweep.  [Going  behind  the  rose-bush]  Then  I  thank 
you  for  it,  although  I  don't  understand  what  it  means. 


140  ADVENT  Acrm 

Thyra.  Was  he  made  a  chimney-sweep  because  he  had 
been  bad? 

Playmate.  No,  he  has  never  been  bad.  But  he  had  a 
bad  guardian  who  took  all  his  money  away  from  him,  and 
so  he  had  to  go  out  into  the  world  to  earn  a  living —  See 
how  fine  he  looks  now! 

The   Chimney-Sweep  enters  dressed  in  light  summer 
clothes. 
Playmate.  [To  the   Chimney-Sweep]  Go   to   the   arcade 
now,  and  you'll   meet  somebody  you  love — and  who  loves 
you! 

Chimney-Sweep.  Who  could  love  me? 
Playmate.  Go  and  find  out. 

The  Chimney-Sweep  goes  across  the  stage  to  the  arcade, 
where  he  is  met  by  the  Lady  in  White,  who  puts  her 
arms  around  him. 
Thyra.  Who  is  living  in  there? 

Playmate.  [With  his  finger  on  his  lips]  Polly  Pry! — But 
who  is  coming  there? 

The  Old  Lady  appears  on  the  road  with  a  sack  on  her 
back  and  a  stick  in  her  hand. 
Eric.  It's  grandmother!     Oh,  now  we  are  in  for  it! 
Thyra.  Oh,  my!     It's  grandmother! 

Playmate.  Don't  get  scared,  children.  I'll  tell  her  it's 
my  fault. 

Eric.  No,  you  mustn't,  for  then  she'll  beat  you. 
Playmate.  Well,  why  shouldn't  I  take  a  beating  for  my 
friends? 
Eric.  No,  I'll  do  it  myself! 
Thyua.  And  I,  too! 

Playmate.  Hush!    And  come  over  here — then  you  won't 

be  scolded.  [They  hide. 

Old  Lady.  [Goes  to  the  spring]  So,  this  is  the  famous  spring 


act  in  A  1)  V  E  N  T  147 

that  is  said  to  cure  everything — after  the  angel  has  stirred 
it  up,  of  course! — But  I  suppose  it  is  nothing  but  lies.  Well, 
I  might  have  a  drink  anyhow,  and  water  is  water.  [She  bends 
down  over  the  spring]  What  is  it  I  see?  Erie  and  Thyra  with 
a  strange  boy!  What  can  it  mean?  For  they  are  not  here. 
It  must  be  an  oracle  spring.  [She  takes  a  cup  that  stands  by 
the  spring,  fills  it  with  water  and  drinks]  Ugh,  it  tastes  of  cop- 
per— he  must  have  been  here  and  poisoned  the  water,  too! 
Everything  is  poisoned!  Everything! — And  I  feel  tired,  too, 
although  the  years  have  not  been  hard  on  me —  [She  looks 
at  her  reflection  in  the  spring  and  tosses  her  head]  On  the  con- 
trary, I  look  quite  youthful — but  it's  hard  to  walk,  and  still 
harder  to  get  up — -  [She  struggles  vainly  to  rise]  My  God,  my 
God,  have  mercy!     Don't  leave  me  lying  here! 

Playmate.  [Makes  a  sign  to  the  children  to  stay  where  they 
are;  then  he  goes  up  to  the  Old  Lady  and  wipes  the  perspira- 
tion from  her  forehead]  Rise,  and  leave  your  evil  ways! 

Old  Lady.  [Rising]  Who  is  that? — Oh,  it's  you,  my  nice 
gentleman,  who  has  led  the  children  astray? 

Playmate.  Go,  ungrateful  woman!  I  have  wiped  the 
sweat  of  fear  from  your  brow;  I  have  raised  you  up  when 
your  own  strength  failed  you,  and  you  reward  me  with  angry 
words.     Go — go ! 

Old  Lady  stares  astonished  at  him;  then  her  eyes  drop, 

and  she  turns  and  goes  out. 
Eric  and,  Thyra  come  forward. 

Eric.  But  I  am  sorry  for  grandmother  just  the  same, 
although  she  is  nasty. 

Thyra.  It  isn't  nice  here,  and  I  want  to  go  home. 

Playmate.  Wait  a  little!  Don't  be  so  impatient. — There 
comes  somebody  else  we  know. 

The  Judge  appears  on  the  road. 

Playmate.  He  cannot  come  here  and  defile  the  spring. 


148  ADVENT  act  hi 

[//c  wares  his  hand;  the  spot  of  sunlight  strikes  the  Judge,  ma- 
king him  turn  around  and  walk  away]  It  is  nice  of  you  to  be 
sorry  for  the  old  people,  but  you  must  believe  that  what  I  do 
is  right.     Do  you  believe  that? 

Eric  and  Thyra.  Yes,  we  believe  it,  we  believe  it! 
Thyra.  But  I  want  to  go  home  to  mamma! 
Playmate.  I'll  let  you  go. 

The  Other  One  appears  in  the  background  and  hides 
himself  behind  the  bushes. 
Playmate.  For  now  I  must  go.     The  Angelus  bell  will 

soon  be  ringing 

Eric.  Where  are  you  going,  little  boy? 
Playmate.  There  are  other  children  I  must  play  with — 
far  away  from  here,  whore  you  cannot  follow  me.     But  now. 
when  I  leave  you  here,  don't  forget  what  I  have  told  you: 
that  you  mustn't  touch  the  tree! 

Eric.  We'll  obey!  We  will!  But  don't  go  away,  for  it 
will  soon  be  dark! 

Playmate.  How  is  that?  Anybody  who  has  a  good  con- 
science and  knows  his  evening  prayer  has  nothing,  nothing 
to  be  afraid  of. 

Thyra.  When  will  you  come  back  to  us,  little  boy? 
Playmate.  Next  Christmas  I  come  back,  and  every  Christ- 
mas!— Good  night,  my  little  friends! 

//-  kisses  thrir  foreheads  and  goes  out  between  the  bushes; 
when  fie  reappears  in  the  background,  he  is  carrying 
a  cross  with  a  banner  like  that  carried  by  the  Christ- 
Child  in  old  paintings;  the  Angelus  bell  begins  to  ring; 
as  he  raises  the  banner  and  waves  it  in  greeting  to  the 
children,  lie  becomes  surrounded  by  a  clear,  white 
light;  then  he  goes  out. 
Eric  and  Thyra  kneel  and  pray  silently  ichile  the  bell 
is  ringing. 


Acrm  ADVENT  149 

Eric.  [Having  crossed  himself)  Do  you  know  who  the  boy 
was,  Thyra? 

Thyra.  It  was  the  Saviour! 

The  Other  One  steps  forward. 

Thyra.  [Scared,  runs  to  Eric,  who  puts  his  arms  around  her 
to  protect  her]  My! 

Eric.  [To  The  Other  One]  What  do  you  want?  You 
nasty  thing! 

The  Other  One.  I  only  wanted —     Look  at  me! 

Eric.  Yes? 

The  Other  One.  I  am  looking  like  this  because  once  I 
touched  the  tree.  Afterward  it  was  my  joy  to  tempt  others 
into  doing  the  same.  But  now,  since  I  have  grown  old,  I 
have  come  to  repent,  and  now  I  am  remaining  here  to  warn 
men,  but  nobody  believes  me — nobody — because  I  lied  once. 

Eric  You  don't  need  to  warn  us,  and  you  can't  tempt  us. 

The  Other  One.  Tut,  tut,  tut!  Not  so  high-and-mighty, 
my  little  friend !     Otherwise  it's  all  right. 

Eric  Well,  go  away  then,  for  I  don't  want  to  listen  to 
you,  and  you  scare  my  sister! 

The  Other  One.  I  am  going,  for  I  don't  feel  at  home  here, 
and  I  have  business  elsewhere.     Farewell,  children! 

Amelia.  [Is  heard  calling  from  the  right]  Eric  and  Thyra! 

Eric  and  Thyra.  Oh,  there  is  mamma — dear  little  mamma! 
Amelia  enters. 

Eric  and  Thyra  rush  into  her  arms. 
The  Other  One  turns  away  to  hide  his  emotion. 

Curtain. 


ACT   IV 

A  cross-roads  surrounded  by  fine  woods.     Moonlight. 
The  Witch  stands  waiting. 

Old  Lady.  Well,  at  last,  there  you  are. 

Witch.  You  have  kept  me  waiting.  Why  have  you  called 
me? 

Old  Lady.  Help  me! 

Witch.  In  what  way? 

Old  Lady.  Against  my  enemies. 

Witch.  There  is  only  one  thing  that  helps  against  your 
enemies:  be  good  to  them. 

Old  Lady.  Well,  I  declare!  I  think  the  whole  world  has 
turned  topsyturvy. 

Witch.  Yes,  so  it  may  seem. 

Old  Lady.  Even  the  Other  One — you  know  who  I  mean 
— has  become  converted. 

Witch.  Then  it  ought  to  be  time  for  you,  too. 

Old  Lady.  Time  for  me?  You  mean  that  my  years  are 
burdening  me?  But  it  is  less  than  three  weeks  since  I  danced 
at  a  wedding. 

Witch.  And  you  call  that  bliss!  Well,  if  that  be  all,  you 
shall  have  your  fill  of  it.  For  there  is  to  be  a  ball  here  to- 
night, although  I  myself  cannot  attend  it. 

Old  Lady.  Here? 

Witch.  Just   here.     It   will    begin   whenever   I   give   the 

word 

150 


act  iv  ADVENT  151 

Old  Lady.  It's  too  bad  I  haven't  got  on  my  low-necked 
dress. 

Witch.  You  can  borrow  one  from  me — and  a  pair  of  dan- 
cing shoes  with  red  heels. 

Old  Lady.  Perhaps  I  might  also  have  a  pair  of  gloves 
and  a  fan? 

Witch.  Everything!  And,  in  particular,  any  number  of 
young  cavaliers  who  will  proclaim  you  the  queen  of  the  ball. 

Old  Lady.  Now  you  are  joking. 

Witch.  No,  I  am  not  joking.  And  I  know  that  they  have 
the  good  taste  at  these  balls  to  choose  the  right  one  for  queen 
— and  in  speaking  of  the  right  one,  I  have  in  mind  the  most 
worthy 

Old  Lady.  The  most  beautiful,  you  mean? 

Witch.  No,  I  don't — I  mean  the  worthiest.  If  you  wish, 
I'll  start  the  ball  at  once. 

Old  Lady.  I  have  no  objection. 

Witch.  If  you  step  aside  a  little,  you'll  find  your  maid — 
while  the  hall  is  being  put  in  order. 

Old  Lady.  [Going  out  to  the  right]  Think  of  it — I  am 
going  to  have  a  maid,  too!  You  know,  madam,  that  was  the 
dream  of  my  youth — which  never  came  true. 

Witch.  There  you  see:  "What  youth  desires,  age  ac- 
quires." [She  blows  a  whistle] 

Without  curtain-fall,  tfw  stage  changes  to  represent  the  bottom 
of  a  rocky,  kettle-shaped  chasm.  It  is  closed  in  on  three 
sides  by  steep  walls  of  black  rock,  wholly  stripped  of  veg- 
etation. At  the  left,  in  the  foreground,  stands  a  throne. 
At  the  right  is  a  platform  for  the  musicians. 

A  bust  of  Pan  on  a  square  base  stands  in  the  middle  of  the  stage, 
surrounded  by  a  strange  selection  of  potted  plants:  hen- 
bane, burdock,  thistle,  onion,  etc. 


152  ADVENT  act  iv 

The  musicians  enter.  Their  clothing  is  grey;  their  faces  are 
chalk-white  and  sad;  their  gestures  tired.  They  appear  to 
be  tuning  their  instruments,  but  not  a  sound  is  heard. 

Then  comes  the  Leader  of  the  Orchestra. 

After  him,  the  guests  of  the  ball:  cripples,  beggars,  tramps.  All 
are  pulling  on  black  gloves  as  they  come  in.  Their  move- 
ments are  dragging;  their  expressions  funereal. 

Next:  The  Master  of  Ceremonies,  who  is  really  The  Other 
One — a  septuagenarian  dandy  wearing  a  black  wig  which 
is  too  small  for  him,  so  that  tufts  of  grey  hair  appear  un- 
derneath. His  mustaches  are  waxed  and  pointed.  He 
wears  a  monocle  and  has  on  an  outgrown  evening  dress 
and  top-boots.  He  looks  melancholy  and  seems  to  be  suffer- 
ing because  of  the  part  he  has  to  play. 

The  Seven  Deadly  Sins  enter  and  group  themselves  around 
the  throne  as  follows: 

Pride  Covetousness 

Lust  Anger 

Gluttony  Envy 

Sloth 

Finally  the  Prince  enters.  He  is  hunchbacked  and  icears  a 
soiled  velvet  coat  with  gold  buttons,  ruffles,  sword,  and  high 
boots  with  spurs. 

The  ensuing  scene  must  be  played  with  deadly  seriousness,  with- 
otd  a  trace  of  irony,  satire,  or  humour.  There  is  a  sugges- 
tion of  a  death-mask  in  the  face  of  every  figure.  They  move 
noiselessly  and  make  simple,  awkward  gestures  that  con- 
vey the  impression  of  a  drill. 

Prince.  [To  the  Master  of  CeremoniesI  Why  do  you 
disturb  my  peace  at  this  midnight  hour? 

Master  of  Ceremonies.  Always,  brother,  you  are  ask- 
ing why.     Have  you  not  seen  the  light  yet? 


act  iv  ADVENT  I,; 

Prince.  Only  in  part.  I  can  perceive  a  connection  !><•- 
tween  my  suffering  and  my  guilt,  but  I  cannot  see  why  I 
should  have  to  suffer  eternally,  when  He  has  suffered  in  my 
place. 

Master  of  Ceremonies.  Eternally?  You  died  only  yes- 
terday. But  then  time  ceased  to  exist  to  you,  and  so  a  few- 
hours  appear  like  an  eternity. 

Prince.  Yesterday? 

Master  of  Ceremonies.  Yes. — But  because  yon  were 
proud  and  wanted  no  assistance,  you  have  now  to  bear  your 
own  sufferings. 

Prince.  What  have  I  done,  then? 

Master  of  Ceremonies.  What  a  sublime  question ! 

Prince.  But  why  don't  you  tell? 

Master  of  Ceremonies.  As  our  task  is  to  torture  each 
other  by  truth-telling— were  we  not  called  "heroes  of  truth" 
in  our  lifetime? — I  shall  tell  you  a  part  of  your  own  secret. 
You  were,  and  you  are  still,  a  hunchback 

Prince.  What  is  that? 

Master  of  Ceremonies.  There  you  see!  You  don't  know 
what  is  known  to  everybody  else.  But  all  those  others 
pitied  you,  and  so  you  never  heard  the  word  that  names  your 
own  deformity. 

Prince.  What  deformity  is  that?  Perhaps  you  mean  that 
I  have  a  weak  chest?     But  that  is  no  deformity. 

Master  of  Ceremonies.  A  "weak  chest'1— yes,  that  is 
your  own  name  for  the  matter.  However,  people  kept  the 
disfigurement  of  your  body  hidden  from  you,  and  they  tried 
to  assuage  your  misfortune  by  showing  you  sympathy  and 
kindness  But  you  accepted  their  generosity  as  an  earned 
tribute,  their  encouraging  words  as  expressions  of  admiration 
due  to  your  superior  physique.  And  at  last  you  went  so  far 
in  conceit  that  you  regarded  yourself  as  a  type  of  masculine 


L54  ADVENT  act  iv 

beauty.  And  when,  to  cap  it  all,  woman  granted  you  her 
favours  out  of  pity,  then  you  believed  yourself  an  irresistible 
conqueror. 

Prince.  What  right  have  you  to  say  such  rude  things 
to  me? 

Master  of  Ceremonies.  Right?  I  am  filling  the  sad- 
dening duty  which  forces  one  sinner  to  punish  another.  And 
soon  you  will  have  to  fulfil  the  same  cruel  duty  toward  a 
woman  who  is  vain  to  the  verge  of  madness — a  woman  re- 
sembling you  as  closely  as  she  possibly  could. 

Prince.  I  don't  want  to  do  it. 

Master  of  Ceremonies.  Try  to  do  anything  but  what 
you  must,  and  you'll  experience  an  inner  discord  that  you 
cannot  explain. 

Prince.  What  does  it  mean? 

Master  of  Ceremonies.  It  means  that  you  cannot  all 

of  a  sudden  cease  to  be  what  you  are:  and  you  are  what 

you  have  wanted  to  become.  [He  claps  his  hands. 

The  Old  Lady  enters,  her  figure  looking  as  aged  and 

clumsy  as  ever;  but  she  has  painted  her  face  and  her 

head  is  covered  by  a  powdered  wig;  she  wears  a  very 

low-necked,  rose-coloured  dress,  red  shoes,  and  a  fan 

made  out  of  peacock  feathers. 

Old  Lady.  [A  little  uncertain]  Where  am  I?  Is  this  the 
ri<dit  place? 

Master  of  Ceremonies.  Quite  right,  for  you  are  in  the 
place  vre  call  the  "waiting-room."  It  is  so  called  [he  siglis], 
because  here  we  have  to  spend  our  time  waiting — waiting 
for  something  thai  will  come  some  time 

Old  Lady.  Well,  it  isn't  bad  at  all — and  there  is  the  music 
— and  there  is  a  bust— of  whom? 

Master  of  Ceremonies.  It's  a  pagan  idol  called  Pan, 
because  to  the  ancients  he  was  all  they  had.     And  as  we,  in 


ACT  IV 


ADVENT  155 


this  place,  are  of  the  old  order,  more  or  less  antiquated,  he 
has  been  put  here  for  us  to  look  at. 

Old  Lady.  Why,  we  are  not  old 

Master  of  Ceremonies.  Yes,  my  Queen.  When  the  new 
era  opened  [he  sight],  we  couldn't  keep  up  with  it,  and  so  we 
were  left  behind 

Old  Lady.  The  new  era?  What  kind  of  talk  is  that? 
When  did  it  begin? 

Master  of  Ceremonies.  It  is  easy  to  figure  out  when  the 
year  one  began —  It  was  night,  for  that  matter;  the  stars 
were  shining  brightly,  and  the  weather  must  have  been  mild, 
as  the  shepherds  remained  in  the  open 

Old  Lady.  Oh,  yes,  yes —  Are  we  not  going  to  dance  here 
to-night? 

Master  of  Ceremonies.  Of  course,  we  are.  The  Prince 
is  waiting  for  a  chance  to  ask  you 

Old  Lady.  \To  the  Master  of  Ceremonies]  Is  he  a  real 
Prince? 

Master  of  Ceremonies.  A  real  one,  my  Queen.  That 
is  to  say,  he  has  full  reality  in  a  certain  fashion 

Old  Lady.  [To  the  Prince,  ivho  is  asking  fwr  to  dance]  You 
don't  look  happy,  my  Prince? 

Prince.  I  am  not  happy. 

Old  Lady.  Well,  I  can't  say  that  I  find  it  very  hilarious — 
and  the  place  smells  of  putty,  as  if  the  glazier  had  just  been 
at  work  here.     What  is  that  strange  smell,  as  of  linseed-oil? 

Prince.  [With  an  expression  of  horror]  What  are  you  say- 
ing?    Do  you  mean  that  charnel-house  smell? 

Old  Lady.  I  fear  I  must  have  said  something  impolite 
but  then,  it  isn't  for  the  ladies  to  offer  pleasantries — that's 
what  the  cavalier  should  do 

Prince.  What  can  I  tell  you  that  you  don't  know  before  ? 

Old  Lady.  That  I  don't  know  before?     Let  me  see —    No, 


IjG  ADVENT  act  iv 

then  I  had  better  tell  you  that  you  are  very  handsome,  my 
Prince. 

Prince.  Now  you  exaggerate,  my  Queen.  I  am  not  ex- 
actly handsome,  but  I  have  always  been  held  what  they  call 
"good-looking." 

Old  Lady.  Just  like  me —  I  never  was  a  beauty — that  is, 
I  am  not,  considering  my  years —  Oh,  I  am  so  stupid! — 
What  was  it  I  wanted  to  say? 

Master  of  Ceremonies.  Let  the  music  begin! 

The  musician*  appear  to  be  playing,  but  not  a  sound  is 
heard. 

Master  of  Ceremonies.  Well?  Are  you  not  going  to 
dance? 

Prince.  [Sadly]  No,  I  don't  care  to  dance. 

Master  of  Ceremonies.  But  you  must:  you  are  the  only 
presentable  gentleman. 

Prince.  That's  true,  I  suppose —  [pensively]  but  is  that 
a  6t  occupation  for  me? 

Master  of  Ceremonies.  How  do  you  mean? 

Prince.  At  times  it  seems  as  if  I  had  something  else  to 
think  of,  but  then — then  I  forget  it. 

Master  of  Ceremonies.  Don't  brood — enjoy  yourself 
while  youth  is  with  you  and  the  roses  of  life  still  bloom  on 

your  cheeks.     Now!     Up  with  the  head,  and  step  lively 

The  Prince  grins  broadly;  then  he  offers  his  hand  to 
the  Old  Lady,  and  together  they  perform  a  few  steps 
of  a  minuet. 

Old  Lady.  [Interm pting  the  dance]  Ugh!  Your  hands  are 
cold  as  Ice!  [She  goes  to  the  throne]  Why  are  those  seven  ladies 
not  dancing? 

M  \ster  of  Ceremonies.  How  do  you  like  the  music, 
Queen? 


act  iv  ADVENT  157 

Old  Lady.  It's  splendid,  but  they  might  play  a  little  more 
forte 

Master  of  Ceremonies.  They  are  soloists,  all  of  them, 
and  formerly  each  one  of  them  wanted  to  make  himself  heard 
above  the  rest,  and  so  they  have  to  use  moderation  now. 

Old  Lady.  But  I  asked  why  the  seven  sisters  over  then- 
are  not  dancing.  Couldn't  you,  as  master  of  ceremonies, 
make  them  do  so? 

Master  of  Ceremonies.  I  don't  think  it  would  be  of  any 
use  trying,  for  they  are  obstinate  as  sin —  But  please  assume 
your  throne,  my  Queen.  We  are  going  to  perform  a  little 
play  in  honour  of  the  occasion 

Old  Lady.  Oh,  what  fun!  But  I  want  the  prince  to 
escort  me— — 

Prince.  [To  the  Master  of  Ceremonies]  Have  I  got  to 
doit? 

Old  Lady.  You  ought  to  be  ashamed  of  yourself — you 
with  your  hunch! 

Prince.  [Spits  in  her  face]  Hold  your  tongue,  you  cursed 
old  hag! 

Old  Lady.  [Cuffs  him  on  the  ear]  That'll  teach  you ! 

Prince.  [Jumps  at  her  and  knocks  her  down]  And  that's 
for  you! 

All  the  rest  cover  their  faces  with  their  hands. 

Prince.  [Tears  off  the  Old  Lady's  wig  so  that  her  head  ap- 
pears totally  bald]  There's  the  false  scalp!  Now  we'll  pull 
out  the  teeth! 

Master  of  Ceremonies.     Enough!    Enough! 

He  helps  the  Old  Lady  to  rise,  and  gives  her  a  kerchief 
to  cover  her  head. 

Old  Lady.  [Crying]  Goodness  gracious,  that  I  could  let 
myself  be  fooled  like  that!  But  I  haven't  deserved  any  bet- 
ter, I  admit. 


158  A  D  V  E  N  T 


ACT  IV 


Prince.  Xo,  you  have  deserved  a  great  deal  worse.  You 
should  leave  my  hunch  alone,  for  otherwise  hell  breaks 
loose  It's  a  miserable  thing  to  see  an  old  woman  like  you 
so  foolish  and  so  degraded.  But,  then,  you  are  to  be  pitied 
— as  all  of  us  are  to  be  pitied. 

Ai.i..   \\V  are  all  to  be  pitied! 

Prince.  [With  a  sneer]  The  queen! 

Old  Lady.  [In  the  same  tone]  The  prince! — But  haven't 
we  met  before? 

Prince.  Perhaps — in  our  youth — for  I  am  old,  too.  You 
had  too  much  frippery  on  before — but  now,  when  the  disguise 
has  been  taken  away — I  begin  to  distinguish  certain  fea- 
tures  

Old  Lady.  Don't  say  anything  more — don't  say  anything 
more —  Oh,  what  have  I  come  to — what  is  happening  to 
me? 

Prince.  Now  I  know:  you  are  my  sister! 

Old  Lady.  But — my  brother  is  dead!  Have  I  been  de- 
ceived?    Or  are  the  dead  coming  back? 

Prince.  Everything  comes  back. 

Old  Lady.  Am  I  dead  or  am  I  living? 

Prince.  You  may  well  ask  that  question,  for  I  don't  know 
the  difference.  But  you  are  exactly  the  same  as  when  I 
parted  from  you  once:  just  as  vain  and  just  as  thievish. 

Old  Lady.  Do  you  think  you  are  any  better? 

Prince.  Perhaps!  I  am  guilty  of  all  the  seven  deadly 
sins,  but  you  have  invented  the  eighth  one — that  of  robbing 
the  dead. 

Old  Lady.  What  are  you  thinking  of  now? 

Prince.  Twelve  years  in  succession  I  sent  you  money  to 
buy  a  wreath  for  mother's  grave,  and  instead  of  buying  it 
you  kept  the  money. 

Old  Lady.  How  do  you  know? 


act  iv  ADVENT  159 

Prince.  How  I  came  to  know  of  it  is  the  only  thing  that 
interests  you  about  that  crime  of  yours. 

Old  Lady.  Prove  it! 

Prince.  [Taking  a  number  of  bills  from  his  pocket]  Here  is 
the  money! 

The  Old  Lady  sinks  to  the  ground.     A  church  bell  be- 
gins to  ring.     All  bend  their  heads,  but  nobody  kneels. 

Lady  in  White.  [Enters,  goes  up  to  the  Old  Lady,  and 
assists  her  in  rising]  Do  you  know  me? 

Old  Lady.  No. 

Lady  in  White.  I  am  Amelia's  mother.  You  have  taken 
the  memory  of  me  away  from  her.  You  have  erased  me 
from  her  life.  But  now  you  are  to  be  wiped  out,  and  I  shall 
recover  my  child's  love  and  the  prayers  my  soul  needs. 

Old  Lady.  Oh,  somebody  has  been  telling  tales  to  that 

hussy — then  I'll  set  her  to  herd  the  swine 

The  Prince  strikes  her  on  the  mouth. 

Lady  in  White.  Don't  strike  her! 

Old  Lady.  Are  you  interceding  for  me? 

Lady  in  White.  It  is  what  I  have  been  taught  to  do. 

Old  Lady.  You  hypocrite!  If  you  only  dared,  you  would 
wish  me  buried  as  deep  as  there  are  miles  from  here  to  the 
sun! 

Master  of  Ceremonies.  Down  with  you — monster! 

[As  he  touches  her  with  his  staff  she  falls  to  the  ground 

Again  the  scene  is  changed  while  the  curtain  remains  up.  The 
bust  of  Pan  sinks  into  the  earth.  The  musicians  and  the 
throne  with  its  attendant  sins  disappear  behind  pieces  of 
scenery  that  are  lowered  from  above.  At  last  the  cross- 
roads with  the  surrounding  pine  woods  appear  again,  and 
the  Old  Lady  is  discovered  lying  at  the  foot  of  a  sign-post. 
The  Witch  is  sta?iding  beside  her. 


160  ADVENT  act  iv 

Witch.  Get  up! 

Old  Lady.  I  cannot— I  am  frozen  stiff 


Witch.  The  sun  will  rise  in  a  moment.  The  cock  has 
crowed.     The  matin  bells  are  ringing. 

Old  Lady.  I  don't  care  for  the  sun. 

Witch.  Then  you'll  have  to  walk  in  darkness. 

Old  Lady.  Oh,  my  eyes!     What  have  you  done  to  me? 

Witch.  I  have  only  turned  out  the  light  because  it  troubled 
you.  Now,  up  and  away  with  you — through  cold  and  dark- 
ness— until  you  drop! 

Old  Lady.  Where  is  my  husband? — Amelia!  Eric  and 
Thyra!     My  children! 

Witch.  Yes,  where  are  they?     But  wherever  they  may  be, 
you  shall  not  see  them  until  your  pilgrimage  is  ended.     Now, 
up  and  away!     Or  I  will  loose  my  dogs! 
The  Old  Lady  gropes  her  way  out. 

The  court-room.  In  the  background  is  the  desk  of  the  presiding 
judge,  decorated  in  white  and  gold  tcith  the  emblems  of 
justice,  hi  front  of  the  desk,  covering  the  centre  of  the 
floor,  stands  a  big  table,  and  on  it  are  placed  writing- 
materials,  inkstand,  Bible,  bell,  and  gavel. 

The  axe  of  the  executioner  hangs  on  the  rear  wall,  with  a  pair  of 
handcuffs  below  it  and  a  big  black  crucifix  above. 

The  Judge  enters  and  makes  his  way  into  the  room  on 

tiptoe.     The  bell  rings.     The  gavel  raps  once  on  the 

table.     All  the  chairs  are  pulled  up  to  the  table  at 

once.     The  Bible  is  opened.     The  candles  on  the  table 

become  lighted. 

For  a  moment  the  Judge  stands  still,  stricken  with  horror. 
Then  he  resumes  his  advance  toward  a  huge  cabinet. 
Suddenly  the  doors  of  (his  fly  open.  A  number  of  docu- 
ments are  thrown  out,  and  the  Judge  picks  them  up. 


act  iv  ADVENT  1G1 

Judge.  [Reassured]  This  time  I  am  in  luck!  Here  arc 
the  accounts  of  my  guardianship;  hen-  is  the  contract  for 
the  lease — my  report  as  executor — all  of  it!  [The  handcuffs 
on  the  wall  begin  to  clank]  Make  all  the  noise  you  please!  As 
long  as  the  axe  stays  still,  I  won't  be  scared.  [He  puts  the 
documents  on  the  table  and  goes  back  to  close  the  door  of  the  cab- 
inet, but  this  flies  open  again  as  soon  as  he  shuts  it]  Every- 
thing has  a  cause:  ratio  sufficient.  This  door  must  have  a 
spring  with  which  I  am  not  familiar.  It  surprises  me  that 
I  don't  know  it,  but  it  cannot  scare  me.  [The  axe  moves  on 
the  icall]  The  axe  moved — as  a  rule,  that  foretells  an  execu- 
tion, but  to-day  it  means  only  that  its  equilibrium  has  he- 
come  disturbed  in  some  way.  Oh,  no,  nothing  will  give 
me  pause  but  seeing  my  own  ghost — for  that  would  be  be- 
yond the  tricks  of  any  charlatan. 

The  Ghost  enters  from  behind  the  cabinet;  the  figure 
resembles  in  every  ivay  the  Judge,  but  where  the  eyes 
should  be  appear  two  white  surfaces,  as  on  a  plaster 
bust. 

Judge.  [Frightened]  Who  are  you? 

Ghost.  I  am  not — I  have  been.  I  have  been  that  un- 
righteous judge  who  is  now  come  here  to  receive  his  sentence. 

Judge.  What  have  you  done  then,  poor  man? 

Ghost.  Everything  wrong  that  an  unrighteous  judge  might 
do.     Pray  for  me,  you  whose  conscience  is  clear 

Judge.  Am  I — to  pray  for  you? 

Ghost.  Yes,  you  who  have  caused  no  innocent  blood  to 
be  shed 

Judge.  That's  true;  that's  something  I  haven't  done.  And 
besides,  as  I  have  always  obeyed  the  letter  of  the  law,  I 
have  good  reason  to  let  myself  be  called  a  righteous  judge — 
yes,  without  irony! 


L6S  ADVENT  act  iv 

Ghost.  It  would,  indeed,  be  a  bad  moment  for  joking,  as 
the  Invisible  Ones  are  sitting  in  judgment 

Judge.  What  do  you  mean?  Who  are  sitting  in  judg- 
ment.1' 

Ghost.  [Pointing  to  the  table]  You  don't  see  them,  but  I 
do.  [The  bell  rings;  a  chair  is  pushed  back  from  the  table]  Pray 
for  me! 

Judge.  No,  I  won't.  Justice  must  take  its  course.  You 
must  have  been  a  great  offender  to  reach  consciousness  of 
your  guilt  so  late. 

Ghost.  You  are  as  stern  as  a  good  conscience. 

Judge.  That's  just  the  word  for  it.     Stern,  but  just! 

Ghost.  No  pity,  then? 

Judge.  None  whatever. 

Ghost.  No  mercy? 

Judge.  No  mercy! 

The  gavel  raps  on  the  table;  the  chairs  are  pushed  away. 

Ghost.  Now  the  verdict  is  being  delivered.  Can't  you 
hear  ? 

Judge.  I  hear  nothing. 

Ghost.  [Pointing  to  the  table]  And  you  see  nothing  ?  Don't 
you  see  the  beheaded  sailor,  the  surveyor,  the  chimney-sweep, 
the  lady  in  white,  the  tenant 

Judge.  I  see  absolutely  nothing. 

Ghost.  Woe  unto  you,  then,  when  your  eyes  become  opened 
as  mine  have  been.     Now  the  verdict  has  been  given:  guilty! 

Judge.  Guilty! 

Ghost.  You  have  said  it — yourself!  And  you  have  already 
been  sentenced.     All  that  remains  now  is  the  big  auction. 

Curtain. 


ACT    V 

The  same  room  as  in  the  second  act,  but  it  is  now  arranged  for 
the  auction.  Benches  are  placed  in  the  middle  of  the  room. 
On  the  table  behind  which  the  auctioneer  is  to  preside  stand 
the  silver  coffee-set,  the  clock,  vases,  candelabra,  etc. 

The  portraits  of  the  Judge  and  the  Old  Lady  have  been  taken 
down  and  are  leaning  against  the  table. 

The  Neighbour  and  Amelia  are  on  the  stage. 

Amelia.  [Dressed  as  a  scrub-woman]  Before  my  mother  left, 
she  ordered  me  to  clean  the  hallway  and  the  stairs.  It  is 
winter  now,  and  cold,  and  I  cannot  say  that  it  has  been  any 
pleasure  to  carry  out  her  order 

Neighbour.  So  you  didn't  get  any  pleasure  out  of  it? 
Well,  my  child,  I  must  say  that  you  demand  rather  too  much 
of  yourself.  But  as  you  have  obeyed,  and  stood  the  test, 
your  time  of  trial  shall  be  over,  and  I  will  let  you  know  your 
life's  secret. 

Amelia.  Speak  out,  neighbour,  for  I  dare  hardly  trust  my 
good  resolutions  much  longer. 

Neighbour.  Well,  then!  The  woman  you  have  been  call- 
ing mother  is  your  stepmother.  Your  father  married  her 
when  you  were  only  one  year  old.  And  the  reason  you  have 
never  seen  your  mother  is  that  she  died  when  you  were  born. 

Amelia.  So  that  was  it!— How  strange  to  have  had  a 
mother  and  yet  never  to  have  seen  her!  Tell  me — did  you 
ever  see  her  ? 

163 


164  ADVENT  act  v 

Neighbour.  I  knew  her. 

Amelia.  How  did  she  look? 

Neighbour.  Well,  how  did  she  look? — Her  eyes  were  blue 
as  the  blossom  of  the  flax — her  hair  was  yellow  as  the  dry 
stalks  of  wheat 

Amelia.  And  tall  and  slender — and  her  hand  was  small  and 
white  as  if  it  had  touched  nothing  but  silk  in  all  her  days — 
and  her  mouth  was  shaped  like  a  heart,  and  her  lips  looked 
as  if  none  but  good  words  had  ever  passed  them. 

Neighbour.  How  can  you  know  all  that? 

Amelia.  Because  that  is  the  image  which  appears  in  my 
dreams  when  I  have  not  been  good —  And  then  she  raises  her 
hand  as  if  to  warn  me,  and  on  one  of  her  fingers  there  is 
a  ring  with  a  green  stone  that  seems  to  radiate  light.  It  is 
she! — Tell  me,  neighbour,  is  there  a  picture  of  her  in  the 
place? 

Neighbour.  There  used  to  be  one,  but  I  don't  know 
whether  it's  still  here. 

Amelia.  So  this  one  is  my  stepmother?  Well,  God  was 
good  when  he  let  me  keep  my  mother's  image  free  from  stain 
—and  hereafter  I  shall  find  it  quite  natural  that  this  other 
woman  is  cruel  to  me. 

Neighbour.  Cruel  stepmothers  exist  to  make  children 
kind.  And  you  were  not  kind,  Amelia,  but  you  have  become 
so,  and  for  that  reason  I  shall  now  give  you  a  Christmas 
present  in  advance. 

He  takes  the  -portrait  of  the  Old  Lady  out  of  its  frame, 
when  in  its  place  appears  a  picture  in  water-colours 
corresponding  to  the  description  given  above. 

Amelia.  [Kneeling  in  front  of  the  picture]  My  mother — 
mother  of  my  dreams!  [Rising]  But  how  can  I  keep  the 
picture  when  it  is  to  be  sold  at  auction? 


ACT  V 


ADVENT  L65 


Neighbour.  You  can,  because  the  auction   has  already 
taken  place. 

Amelia.  Where  and  when  was  it  held? 

Neighbour.  It  was  held  elsewhere — in  a  place  not  known 
to  you — and  to-day  the  things  are  merely  to  be  taken  away. 

Amelia.  What  a  lot  of  queer  things  are  happening!  And 
how  full  of  secrets  the  house  is! — But  tell  me,  where  is  my 
stepmother?     I  have  not  seen  her  in  a  long  time. 

Neighbour.  I  suppose  it  must  be  told:  she  is  in  a  place 
from  which  nobody  returns. 

Amelia.  Is  she  dead? 

Neighbour.  She  is  dead.  She  was  found  frozen  to  death 
in  a  swamp  into  which  she  had  stumbled. 

Amelia.  Merciful  God  have  pity  on  her  soul ! 

Neighbour.  So  he  will  in  time,  especially  if  you  pray  for  her. 

Amelia.  Of  course  I  will. 

Neighbour.  How  good  you  have  become,  my  child — as 
a  result  of  her  becoming  so  bad! 

Amelia.  Don't  say  so  now  when  she  is  dead 

Neighbour.  Right  you  are!     Let  her  rest  in  peace! 

Amelia.  But  where  is  my  father? 

Neighbour.  That's  a  secret  to  all  of  us.  But  it  is  sweet 
of  you  to  ask  for  him  before  you  ask  for  your  own  Adolph. 

Amelia.  Adolph — yes,  where  is  he?  The  children  arc 
crying  for  him,  and  Christmas  is  near. — Oh,  what  a  Christ- 
mas this  will  be  to  us! 

Neighbour.  Leave  to  each  day  its  own  trouble — and  now 
take  your  Christmas  present  and  go.  The  affairs  connected 
with  the  auction  are  to  be  settled,  and  then  you'll  hear  news. 

Amelia.  [Takes  the  portrait  of  her  mother]  I  go,  but  no 
longer  alone — and  I  have  a  feeling  that  something  good  is 
about  to  happen,  but  what  I  cannot  tell. 

[She  goes  out  to  the  right. 


160  A  D  V  E  N  T  act  v 

Neighbour.  But  I  know!  Yet  you  had  better  go,  for 
what  is  about  to  happen  here  should  not  be  seen  by  chil- 
dren. 

He  opens  the  door  in  the  rear  and  rings  a  bell  to  summon 

the  -people  to  the  auction.     The  people  enter  in  the 

following  order:  The  Poor,  a  large  number  of  them; 

the  Sailor;  the  Chimney-Sweep;  the  Neighbour, 

who  takes  his  place  in  front  of  the  rest;  the  Widow 

and  the  Fatherless  Children;  the  Surveyor;  The 

Other  One,  carrying  the  auctioneer's  hammer  and 

a  pile  of  documents. 

The  Other  Oxe.  [Takes  his  place  at  the  table  and  raps  with 

the  hammer]  At  a  compulsory  auction  held  at  the  court-house 

for  the  disposal  of  property  left  by  the  late  circuit  judge,  the 

items  now  to  be  described  were  bid  in  by  the  Court  on  behalf 

of  absent  creditors,  and  may  now  be  obtained  and  taken 

away  by  their  respective  owners. 

Judge.  [Enters,  looking  very  aged  and  miserable]  In  the 
name  of  the  law — hold! 

The  Other  One.  [Pretends  to  throw  something  at  the  Judge, 
who  stands  aghast  and  speechless]  Don't  speak  of  the  law! 
Here  the  Gospel  is  preached — but  not  for  you,  who  wanted 
to  buy  heaven  with  stolen  money. — First:  the  widow  and 
her  fatherless  children.  There  is  the  silver  set  which  the 
judge  accepted  from  you  for  his  false  report  as  executor. 
In  his  stained  hands  the  silver  has  turned  black,  but  I 
hope  that  in  yours  it  will  once  more  turn  white. — Then 
we  come  to  the  ward,  who  had  to  become  a  chimney-sweep, 
after  being  cheated  out  of  his  inheritance.  Here  are  the  re- 
ceipted bills  and  the  property  due  to  you  from  your  guardian. 
And  you  need  not  thank  him  for  his  accounting. — Here 
stands  the  surveyor  who,  although  he  was  innocent,  had  to 
serve  two  years   in  prison  because  he  had   made  an  illegal 


actv  ADVENT  167 

partition — the  maps  handed  to  him  for  the  purpose  hav- 
ing been  falsified  in  advance.  What  can  you  do  for  him, 
Judge?  Can  you  undo  what  has  happened,  or  restore  his 
lost  honour? 

Judge.  Oh,  that  fellow — give  him  a  bill  and  he'll  be  sat- 
isfied!    His  honour  wasn't  worth  a  penny,  anyhow. 

The  Other  One.  [Slaps  the  Judge  on  the  mouth,  while  the 
rest  spit  at  him  and  mutter  with  clinched  fists]  Here  is  the 
brother  of  the  sailor  who  was  beheaded  in  spite  of  his  inno- 
cence. Can  you  restore  his  brother  to  life?  No!  And  you 
cannot  pay  for  his  life  with  yours,  as  it  is  not  worth  as 
much. — And  finally  we  come  to  the  neighbour  whom  you 
cheated  out  of  his  property  in  a  perfectly  legal  way.  Not 
familiar  with  the  tricks  of  the  law,  the  neighbour  has,  con- 
trary to  prevailing  practice,  placed  the  judge's  son-in-law 
in  charge  of  the  property  as  life  tenant,  wiping  out  his  pre- 
vious indebtedness  and  making  him  also  legal  heir  to  the 
property. 

Judge.  I  appeal  to  a  higher  court! 

The  Other  One.  This  case  has  passed  through  all  the 
instances  except  the  highest,  and  that  far  you  cannot  reach 
with  your  stamped  papers.  For  if  you  tried,  all  these  poor 
people  whom  you  have  robbed  of  their  living  would  cry 
out:  Guilty! — Thus  we  are  done  with  all  that  could  be  prop- 
erly disposed  of.  What  remains  here  still  undisposed  of  goes 
to  the  poor:  clocks,  vases,  jewelry  and  other  valuables  that 
have  served  as  bribes,  graft,  tips,  souvenirs — all  in  a  per- 
fectly legal  way  because  evidence  and  witnesses  were  wanting. 
You  poor,  take  back  your  own!  Your  tears  have  washed  the 
guilt  from  the  ill-gotten  goods.  [The  Poor  begin  to  plunder] 
And  now  remains  the  last  item  to  be  sold  by  me.  This  pau- 
per here,  formerly  a  judge,  is  offered  to  the  lowest  bidder  for 
board  at  the  expense  of  the  parish.     How  much  is  offered? 


168  ADVENT  act  v 

[Silence]  No  offer?  [Silence]  First,  second,  third  time — no 
offer?  [To  the  Judge]  There,  you  see!  Nobody  wants  you. 
Well,  then,  I  have  to  take  you  myself  and  send  you  to  your 
well-earned  punishment. 

Judge.  Is  there  no  atonement? 

The  Other  One.  Yes,  punishment  atones. — Take  him 
into  the  woods  and  stone  him  in  accordance  with  the  law 
of  Moses — for  no  other  law  was  ever  known  to  him.  Away 
with  him!     [The  people  pounce  on  the  Judge  and  jostle  him. 

The  scene  changes  to  the  "  iraiting-room."     The  same  setting 
as  in  the  second  scene  of  the  fourth  act:  a  kettle-shaped 

chasm  surrounded  by  steep  black  rocks.     {The  same  people 

are  on  the  stage.) 
In  the  background  appear  a  pair  of  huge  scales  for  the  weighing 

of  newcomers. 
The  Judge  and  the  Old  Lady  are  seated  opposite  each  other  at 

a  small  table. 

Judge.  [Staring  in  front  of  himself  as  if  lost  in  a  dream] 
Hush! — I  had  a  dream!  They  were  throwing  stones  at  me — 
and  yet  I  felt  no  pain — and  then  everything  turned  black  and 
vacant  until  this  moment —  How  long  it  may  have  lasted, 
t  cannot  tell —  Now  I  am  beginning  to  hear  again — and 
to  feel.  It  feels  as  if  I  were  being  carried — oh,  how  cold  it 
is — they  are  washing  me,  I  think —  I  am  lying  in  something 
that  ba-.  six  sides  like  a  cell  in  a  honeycomb  and  that  smells 
like  a  carpenter  shop —  I  am  being  carried,  and  a  bell  is 
ringing  —  Wait!  Now  I  am  riding,  but  not  in  a  street-car, 
although  the  bell  is  ringing  all  the  time —  Now  I  am  sinking 
down,  down,  as  if  I  were  drowning — boom,  boom,  boom: 
thnc  knocks  on  the  roof — and  then  the  lessons  begin — the 
teacher  is  leading — and  now  the  boys  are  singing —      What 


actv  ADVENT  169 

can  it  be? — And  then  they  are  knocking  on  the  roof  again, 
incessantly — boom,  boom,  boom,  boom,  boom,  boom — si- 
lence— it's  over!  [He  wakes  up]  Where  am  I?  I  choke!  It's 
so  stuffy  and  close  here! — Oh,  it's  you! — Where  are  we? 
Whose  bust  is  that? 

Old  Lady.  They  say  it  is  the  new  god. 

Judge.  But  he  looks  like  a  goat. 

Old  Lady.  Perhaps  it  is  the  god  of  the  goats? 

Judge.  "The  goats  on  the  left  side — "  What  is  that  I 
am  recalling? 

Prince.  It  is  the  god  Pan. 

Judge.  Pan? 

Prince.  Exactly!  Just  exactly!  And  when,  in  the  night, 
the  shepherds — no,  not  those  shepherds — catch  sight  of  a 
hair  of  his  hide  they  are  seized  with  panic 

Judge.  [Rising]  Woe!  I  don't  want  to  stay  here!  Woe! 
Can't  I  get  out  of  here?     I  want  to  get  out! 

[He  runs  around,  looking  vainly  for  a  way  out. 

The  Other  One.  [Enters  dressed  as  a  Franciscan  friar] 
You'll  find  nothing  but  entrances — no  exits ! 

Judge.  Are  you  Father  Colomba? 

The  Other  One.  No,  I  am  The  Other  One. 

Judge.  As  a  monk? 

The  Other  One.  Don't  you  know  that  The  Other  One 
turns  monk  when  he  grows  old;  and  don't  you  think  it  is 
well  that  he  does  so  some  time?  But,  seriously  speaking — 
for  here  everything  is  serious — this  is  my  holiday  attire, 
which  I  am  permitted  to  wear  only  this  one  day  of  the  year 
in  order  that  I  may  remember  what  I  have  had  and  what  I 
have  lost. 

Judge.  [Alarmed]  What  day  of  the  year  is  it  to-day? 


170  ADVENT  act  v 

The  Other  One.  [Bending  his  head  with  a  sigh]  It  is 
Christmas  Eve! 

Judge.  [Approaching  the  Old  Lady]  Think  of  it,  it  is 
Christmas  Eve? — And  you  know  I  don't  dare  to  ask  where 
we  are — I  dare  not — but  let  us  go  home,  home  to  our  chil- 
dren, to  our  own [He  cries. 

Old  Lady.  Yes,  let  us  go  from  here,  home  to  ourselves, 
that  we  may  start  a  new  life  in  peace  and  harmony 

The  Other  One.  It  is  too  late! 

Old  Lady.  Oh,  dear,  sweet  fellow — help  us,  have  mercy 
on  us,  forgive  us! 

The  Other  One.  It  is  too  late! 

Judge.  [Taking  the  Old  Lady  by  the  hand]  I  am  choking 
with  dread!  Don't  ask  him  where  we  are;  I  don't  want  to 
know!  But  one  thing  I  do  want  to  know:  will  there  ever 
be  an  end  to  this? 

The  Other  One.  Never! — That  word  "end"  is  not  known 
to  us  here. 

Judge.  [Crushed]  No  end!  [Looking  around]  And  does  the 
sun  never  enter  this  place  of  damp  and  cold? 

The  Other  One.  Never,  for  those  who  dwell  here  have 
not  loved  the  sun! 

Judge.  It  is  true:  I  have  cursed  the  sun. — May  I  confess 
my  sins? 

The  Other  One.  No,  you  must  keep  them  to  yourself 
until  they  begin  to  swell  and  stop  up  your  throat. 

Old  Lady.  [Kneeling]  O —     I   don't  know  how  to  pray! 
She  rises  and  walks  restlessly  back  and  forth,  wringing 
her  hands. 

The  Other  One.  Because  for  you  there  is  no  one  to  whom 
you  might  pray. 

Old  Lady.  [In  despair]  Children — send  somebody  to  give 
in'-  a  word  (if  hope  and  pardon. 


actv  ADVENT  171 

The  Other  One.  It  will  not  be  done.  Your  children  have 
forgotten  you — they  are  now  rejoicing  at  your  absence. 

A  picture  appears  on  the  rocky  wall  in  the  rear:  the 
home,  with  Adolph,  Amelia,  Eric,  and  Thyra 
around  the  Christmas  tree;  in  the  background,  the 
Playmate. 

Judge.  You  say  they  are  seated  at  the  Christmas  table 
rejoicing  at  our  misfortune? — No,  now  you  lie,  for  they  are 
better  than  we! 

The  Other  One.  What  new  tune  is  that?  I  have  always 
heard  that  you  were  a  righteous  man 

Judge.  I?  I  was  a  great  sinner — the  greatest  one  that 
ever  was! 

The  Other  One.  Hm!     Hm! 

Judge.  And  if  you  say  anything  of  the  children  you  are 
guilty  of  a  sin.     I  know  that  they  are  praying  for  us. 

Old  Lady.  [On  her  knees]  I  can  hear  them  tell  their  rosa- 
ries: hush — I  hear  them! 

The  Other  One.  You  are  completely  mistaken.  What 
you  hear  is  the  song  of  the  workmen  who  are  tearing  down 
the  mausoleum. 

Judge.  The  mausoleum!  Where  we  were  to  have  rested 
in  peace! 

Prince.  Shaded  by  a  dozen  wreaths. 

Judge.  Who  is  that? 

Prince.  [Pointing  to  the  Old  Lady]  She  is  my  sister,  and 
so  you  must  be  my  brother-in-law. 

Judge.  Oh — that  lazy  scamp! 

Prince.  Look  here!    In  this  place  we  are  all  lazy  scamps. 

Judge.  But  we  are  not  all  hunchbacks! 

Prince.  [Strikes  him  a  blow  on  the  mouth]  Don't  touch  the 
hunch  or  there  will  be  hell  to  pay! 


172  ADVENT  actv 

Judge.  What  a  way  to  treat  a  man  of  my  ability  and  high 
social  position!     What  a  Christmas! 

Prince.  Perhaps  you  expected  your  usual  creamed  cod- 
fish and  Christmas  cake? 

Judge.  Not  exactly,  but  there  ought  to  be  something  to 
feed  on 

Prince.  Here  we  are  keeping  a  Christmas  fast,  you  see. 

Judge.  How  long  will  it  last? 

Prince.  How  long?  We  don't  measure  time  here,  because 
it  has  ceased  to  exist,  and  a  minute  may  last  a  whole 
eternity. 

Old  Lady.  We  suffer  only  what  our  deeds  have  deserved 
— so  don't  complain 

Prince.  Just  try  to  complain,  and  you'll  see  what  hap- 
pens.— We  are  not  squeamish  here,  but  bang  away  without 
regard  for  legal  forms. 

Judge.  Are  they  beating  carpets  out  there — on  a  day  like 
this? 

Prince.  No,  it  is  an  extra  ration  of  rod  all  around  as  a  re- 
minder for  those  who  may  have  forgotten  the  significance  of 
the  day. 

Judge.  Do  they  actually  lay  hands  on  our  persons?  Is  it 
|)n>-.iUe  that  educated  people  can  do  things  like  that  to  each 
other? 

Prince.  This  is  a  place  of  education  for  the  badly  edu- 
cated;  and  those  who  have  behaved  like  scoundrels  are 
treated  like  such. 

Judge.  Bui  this  passes  all  limits! 

Prince.  Yes,  because  here  we  are  in  the  limitless!  Now 
get  ready!  I  have  already  been  out  there  and  had  my  por- 
tion. 


act  v  ADVENT  173 

Judge.  [Appalled]  What  humiliation!  That's  to  strip  you 
of  all  human  worth! 

Prince.  Ha  ha!  Human  worth!  Ha  ha! — Look  at  the 
scales  over  there.  That's  where  the  human  worth  is  weighed 
— and  invariably  found  wanting. 

Judge.  [Sits  down  at  the  table]  I  could  never  have  be- 
lieved  

Prince.  No,  you  could  only  believe  in  your  caul  and  your 
own  righteousness.  And  yet  you  had  both  Moses  and  the 
Prophets  and  more  besides — for  the  very  dead  walked  for 
your  benefit. 

Judge.  The  children!  The  children!  Is  it  not  possible 
to  send  them  a  word  of  greeting  and  of  warning? 

Prince.  No!     Eternally,  no! 

The  Witch  comes  forward  with  a  big  basketful  of  ster- 
eoscopes. 

Judge.  What  is  it? 

Witch.  Christmas  gifts  for  the  righteous.  Stereoscopes, 
you  know.  [Handing  out  one]  Help  yourself.  They  don't  cost 
anything. 

Judge.  There's  a  kind  soul  at  last.  And  a  little  attention 
to  a  man  of  my  age  and  rank  does  honour  both  to  your  tact 
and  to  your  heart 

Witch.  That's  very  nice  of  you,  Judge,  but  I  hope  you 
don't  mind  my  having  given  some  thought  to  the  others, 
too. 

Judge.  [Disappointed]  Are  you  poking  fun  at  me,  you 
damned  old  hag? 

Witch.  [Spitting  in  his  face]  Hold  your  tongue,  petti- 
fogger! 

Judge.  What  company  I  have  got  into! 

Witch.  Is  it  not  good  enough  for  you,  you  old  perjurer, 


174  ADVENT  act  v 

you  grafter,  you  forger,  you  robber  of  orphans,  you  false 
pleader?  Now  have  a  look  in  the  peep-show  and  take  in 
the  great  Bpectacle:  "From  the  Cradle  to  the  Grave."  There 
is  your  whole  biography  and  all  your  victims— just  have  a 
look  now.     That's  right! 

Judge  looks  in  the  stereoscope ;  then  he  rises  with  horror 
stamped  on  his  face. 
Witch.  I  hope  this  slight  attention  may  add  to  the  Christ- 
mas joy ! 

She  hands  a  stereoscope  to  the  Old  Lady,  and  proceeds 
thereafter  to  give  one  to  each  person  present. 
Judge.  [Sitting  at  the  table,  where  now  the  Old  Lady  takes 
a  seat  opposite  him]  What  do  you  see? 

Old  Lady.  Everything  is  there;  everything! — And  do  you 
notice  that  everything  is  black?  All  life  that  seemed  so 
bright  is  now  black,  and  even  moments  which  I  thought  full 
of  innocent  joy  have  an  appearance  of  something  nauseating, 
foul,  almost  criminal.  It  is  as  if  all  my  memories  had  de- 
cayed, including  the  fairest  among  them 

Judge.  You  are  right.  There  is  not  one  memory  that  can 
bring  light  into  this  darkness.  When  I  look  at  her  who  was 
the  first  love  of  my  youth,  I  see  nothing  but  a  corpse.  When 
I  think  of  my  sweet  Amelia,  there  appears — a  harlot.  The 
little  ones  make  faces  at  me  like  gutter-snipes.  My  court 
has  become  a  pigsty;  the  vineyard,  a  rubbish-heap  full  of 
thistles;  and  the  mausoleum —  Oh.  horrors! — an  outhouse! 
When  I  think  of  the  green  woods,  the  leafage  appears  snuff- 
coloured  and  the  trunks  look  bleached  as  mast  tops.  The 
blue  river  seems  to  How  out  of  a  dung-heap  and  the  blue 
arch  above  it  looks  like  a  smoky  roof —  Of  the  sun  itself  I 
can  recall  nothing  but  the  name;  and  what  was  called  the 
m... ,11  ihc  lamp  that  shed  its  light  on  bays  and  groves  dur- 
ing the  amorous  nights  of  my  youth — I  can  remember  only 


ACT  V 


ADVENT  175 


as — no,  I  cannot  remember  it  at  all.  But  the  words  are 
left,  although  they  have  only  sound  without  sense. — Love, 
wine,  song!  Flowers,  children,  happiness! — Don't  the  words 
sound  pretty?  And  it  is  all  that  is  left!— Love?  What  was 
it,  anyhow? 

Old  Lady.  What  was  it? — Two  cats  on  a  back-yard 
fence. 

Judge.  [Sheepishly]  Yes,  that's  it!  That's  what  it  was! 
Three  dogs  on  a  sidewalk.     What  a  sweet  recollection ! 

Old  Lady.  [Pressing  his  hand]  Yes,  it  is  sweet! 

Judge.  [Looking  at  his  watch]  My  watch  has  stopped.  I 
am  so  hungry — and  I  am  thirsty,  too,  and  I  long  for  a  smoke. 
But  I  am  also  tired  and  want  to  sleep.  All  my  desires  are 
waking.  They  claw  at  me  and  hound  me,  but  not  one  of 
them  can  I  satisfy.     We  are  lost !     Lost,  indeed ! 

Old  Lady.  And  I  long  for  a  cup  of  tea  more  than  I  can 
tell! 

Judge.  Hot  green  tea — that's  just  what  I  should  like  now 
— with  a  tiny  drop  of  rum  in  it. 

Old  Lady.  No,  not  rum!     I  should  prefer  some  cakes 

Prince.  [Who  has  drawn  near  to  listen]  Sugared,  of  course? 
I  fear  you'll  have  to  whistle  for  them. 

Old  Lady.  Oh,  this  dreadful  language  hurts  me  more  than 
anything  else. 

Prince.  That's  because  you  don't  know  yet  how  some- 
thing else  is  going  to  hurt  you. 

Judge.  What  is  that? 

Old  Lady.  No,  don't!     We  don't  want  to  know!     Please! 

Prince.  Yes,  I  am  going  to  tell.     It  begins  with— 

Old  Lady.  [Puts  her  fingers  in  her  ears  and  cries  out]  Mercy ! 
Don't,  don't,  don't! 

Prince.  Yes,  I  will— and  as  my  brother-in-law  is  curious, 
I'll  tell  it  to  him.     The  second  letter  is— 


176  ADVENT  act  v 

Judge.  This  uncertainty  is  worse  than  torture —  Speak 
out,  you  devil,  or  I'll  kill  you! 

Prince.  Kill,  ha  ha!  Everybody  is  immortal  here,  body 
and  soul,  what  little  there  is  left.  However,  the  third  let- 
ter  is— and  that's  all  you'll  know! 

Man  in  Grey.  [A  small,  lean  man  with  grey  clothes,  grey 
face,  black  lips,  grey  beard,  and  grey  hands;  he  speaks  in  a  very 
bur  voice]  May  I  speak  a  word  with  you,  madam? 

Old  Lady.  [Rising  in  evident  alarm]  What  is  it  about? 

Man  i.v  Grey.  [Smiling  a  ghastly,  malicious  smile]  I'll  tell 
— out  there. 

Old  Lady.  [Crying]  No,  no;  I  won't! 

Man  in  Grey.  [Laughing] ;  It  isn't  dangerous.  Come 
along!     All  I  want  is  to  speak  to  you.     Come  now! 

[  They  go  toward  the  background  and  disappear. 

Prince.  [To  the  Judge]  A  little  Christmas  entertainment 
is  wholesome. 

Judge.  Do  you  mean  to  maltreat  a  woman? 

Prince.  Here  all  injustices  are  abolished,  and  woman  is 
treated  as  the  equal  of  man. 

Judge.  You  devil! 

Prince.  That's  all  right,  but  don't  call  me  hunchback,  for 
that  touches  my  last  illusion. 

Tin:  Other  One.  [Steps  up  to  the  table]  Well,  how  do  you 
like  our  animal  magnetism?  It  can  work  wonders  on  black- 
guards! 

Judge.  I  understand  nothing  of  all  this. 

Tin:  Other  One.  That's  just  what  is  meant,  and  it  is  very 
Dice  of  you  to  admit  that  there  are  things  you  don't  under- 
stand. 

•I  i  dge.  Granting  that  I  am  now  in  the  realm  of  the 
dead   — 


act  v  ADVENT  177 

The  Other  One.  Say  "hell,"  for  that  is  what  it's 
called. 

Judge.  [Stammering]  Th-then  I  should  like  to  remind 
you  that  He  who  once  descended  here  to  redeem  all 
lost 

Prince.  [At  a  sign  from  The  Other  One  he  strikes  the 
Judge  in  the  face]  Don't  argue! 

Judge.  They  won't  even  listen  to  me!  It  is  beyond  de- 
spair!    No  mercy,  no  hope,  no  end! 

The  Other  One.  Quite  right!  Here  you  find  only  jus- 
tice and  retribution — especially  justice:  an  eye  for  an  eye, 
and  a  tooth  for  a  tooth!     Just  as  you  wanted  it! 

Judge.  But  among  men  there  is  pardon — and  that  you 
don't  have  here. 

The  Other  One.  Monarchs  alone  possess  the  right  to 
pardon.  And  as  a  man  of  law  you  ought  to  know  that  a 
petition  for  pardon  must  be  submitted  before  it  can  be 
granted. 

Judge.  For  me  there  can  be  no  pardon ! 

The  Other  One.  [Gives  the  Prince  a  sign  to  step  aside] 
You  feel,  then,  that  your  guilt  is  too  great? 

Judge.  Yes. 

The  Other  One.  Then  I'll  speak  kindly  to  you.  There 
is  an  end,  you  see,  if  there  is  a  beginning.  And  you 
have  made  a  beginning.  But  the  sequel  will  be  long  and 
hard. 

Judge.  Oh,  God  is  good! 

The  Other  One.  You  have  said  it! 

Judge.  But — there  is  one  thing  that  cannot  be  undone 
— there  is  one! 

The  Other  One.  You  are  thinking  of  the  monstrance 
which  should  have  been  of  gold  but  was  of  silver?     Well, 


178  ADVENT  act  v 

don't  you  think  that  He  who  changed  water  into  wine  may 
also  change  silver  into  gold? 

Judge.  [On  his  knees]  But  my  misdeed  is  too  great,  too 
great  to  be  forgiven. 

The  Othek  Oxe.  Now  you  overestimate  yourself  again. 
But  rise  up.  We  are  about  to  celebrate  Christmas  in  our 
own  fashion. — The  light  of  the  sun  cannot  reach  here,  as  you 
know — nor  that  of  the  moon.  But  on  this  night,  and  on  this 
alone,  a  star  rises  so  far  above  the  rocks  that  it  is  visible  from 
here.  It  is  the  star  that  went  before  the  shepherds  through 
the  desert — and  that  was  the  morning  star. 

[He  claps  his  hands  together. 
The  bust  of  Pan  sinks  into  the  ground.     The  Old  Lady 
returns,  looking  reassured  and  quietly  happy.     With 
a  suggestion  of  firm  hope  in  mien  and  gesture,  she 
goes  up  to  the  Judge  and  takes  his  hand. 
The  stage  becomes  filled  uith  shadows  that  are  gazing  up 
at  the  rocks  in  the  rear. 
Chorus  I.  [Tiro  sopranos  and  an  alto  sing  behind  the  stage, 
accompanied  only  by  string  instruments  and  a  harp.] 
Puer  natus  est  nobis; 
Et  filius  datus  est  nobis, 
Cujus  imperium  super  humerum  ejus; 
Et  vocabitur  nomen  ejus 
Magni  consilii  Angelus. 
Chorus  II.  [Soprano,  alto,  tenor,  basso.  ] 

Cantate  Domino  canticum  novum 
Quia  mirabilia  fecit! 
The  star  becomes  visible  above  the  rocks  in  the  rear.  All 
kneel  down.  A  part  of  the  rock  glides  aside,  reveal- 
ing a  tableau:  the  crib  with  the  child  and  the  mother; 
the  shepherds  adoring  at  the  left,  the  three  Magi  at 
the  right. 


ACT  V 


ADVENT  17!) 


Chorus  III.  [Two  sopranos  and  two  altos. ] 
Gloria  in  excelsis  Deo 
Et  in  terra  pax 
Hominibus  bonae  voluntatis! 

Curtain. 


THE    THUNDERSTORM 

(OVADER) 

A    CHAMBER    PLAY 
1907 


CHARACTERS 

The  Master,  a  retired  government  official 

The  Consul,  his  brother 

Starck,  a  confectioner 

Agnes,  daughter  of  Starck 

Louise,  a  relative  of  the  Master 

Gerda,  the  Master's  divorced  wife 

Fischer,  second  husband  of  Gerda 

The  Iceman 

The  Letter-Carrier 

The  Lamplighter 

The  Liquordealer's  Man 

The  Milkmaid 

Scene  I — In  Front  of  the  House 
Scene  II — Inside  the  House 
Scene  IH — In  Front  of  the  House 


THE    THUNDERSTORM 

FIRST    SCENE 

The  front  of  a  modern  house  with  a  basement  of  granite.  The 
upper  parts  are  of  brick  covered  with  yellow  plastering. 
The  window-frames  and  other  ornaments  are  of  sandstone. 
A  low  archway  leads  through  the  basement  to  the  court  and 
serves  also  as  entrance  to  the  confectioner  s  shop.  The 
corner  of  the  house  appears  at  the  right  of  the  stage,  where 
the  avenue  opens  into  a  small  square  planted  with  roses 
and  various  other  flowers.  At  the  corner  is  a  mail-box. 
The  main  floor,  above  the  basement,  has  large  windows, 
all  of  which  are  open.  Four  of  these  windows  belong  to 
an  elegantly  furnished  dining-room.  The  four  middle 
windows  in  the  second  story  have  red  shades  which  are 
drawn;   the  shades  are  illumined  by  light  from  within. 

Along  the  front  of  the  house  runs  a  sidewalk  with  trees  planted 
at  regular  intervals.  There  is  a  lamp-post  in  the  extreme 
foreground  and  beside  it  stands  a  green  bench. 

Starck,  the  confectioner,  comes  out  with  a  chair  and  sits  down 
on  the  sidewalk. 

The  Master  is  visible  in  the  dining-room  of  the  main  floor, 
seated  at  the  table.  Behind  him  appears  an  oven  built  of 
green  majolica  tiles.  On  its  mantel-shelf  stands  a  large 
photograph  between  two  candelabra  and  some  vases  con- 
taining flowers.  A  young  girl  in  a  light  dress  is  just 
serving  the  final  course. 

183 


184  THE    THUNDERSTORM     scene  i 

Tin  Master's  brother,  the  Consul,  appears  in  front  of  the 
house,  coming  from  the  left,  and  knocks  with  his  walking- 
stick  on  the  sill  of  one  of  the  dining-room  windows. 

Consul.  Will  you  soon  be  through? 

Master.  I'll  come  in  a  moment. 

Consul.  [Saluting  the  confectioner]  Good  evening,  Mr. 
Starck.     It's  still  hot 

Starck.  Good  evening,  Consul.  Yes,  it's  the  dog-day 
heat,  and  we  have  been  making  jam  all  day. 

Consul.  Is  that  so?     It's  a  good  year  for  fruit,  then? 

Starck.  It  might  be  worse.  Well,  the  spring  was  cold, 
but  the  summer  turned  out  unbearably  hot.  It  was  hard 
on  us  who  had  to  stay  in  the  city. 

Consul.  I  got  back  from  the  country  yesterday — one  be- 
gins to  wish  oneself  back  when  the  evenings  grow  dark. 

Starck.  Neither  I  nor  my  wife  have  been  out  of  the  city. 
Of  course,  business  is  at  a  standstill,  but  you  have  to  be  on 
hand  to  make  ready  for  the  winter.  First  come  strawberries, 
then  cherries,  then  raspberries,  and  last  gooseberries,  canta- 
loupes and  all  the  fall  fruits 

Consul.  Tell  me  something,  Mr.  Starck.  Is  the  house 
here  to  be  sold? 

Starck.  Not  that  I  have  heard. 

Consul.  There  are  a  lot  of  people  living  here? 

Starck.  Something  like  ten  families,  I  think,  counting 
those  in  the  rear  also.  But  nobody  knows  anybody  else. 
There  is  unusually  little  gossiping  in  the  house.  It  seems 
r.ither  as  if  everybody  were  hiding.  I  have  lived  here  ten 
years,  and  during  the  first  two  years  we  had  for  neighbours 
;i  strange  family  that  kept  very  quiet  in  the  daytime.  But 
al  night  they  began  to  stir  about,  and  then  carriages  would 
come  and  fetch  things  awav.     Not  until  the  end  of  the  second 


scene i     THE    THUNDERSTORM  I   ., 

year  did  I  learn  that  they  had  been  running  a  private  san- 
atorium, and  that  what  was  being  taken  away  at  night  were 
dead  bodies. 

Consul.  Horrible! 

Starck.  And  they  eall  it  the  Silent  House. 

Consul.  Yes,  there  isn't  much  talking  done  here. 

Starck.  More  than  one  drama  has  been  played  here, 
nevertheless. 

Consul.  Tell  me,  Mr.  Starck,  who  lives  up  there  on  the 
second  floor,  right  above  my  brother? 

Starck.  Up  there,  where  the  light  comes  through  the  red 
shades — a  tenant  died  there  during  the  summer.  Then  the 
place  stood  empty  for  a  month,  and  a  week  ago  a  new  family 
moved  in.  I  haven't  seen  them.  I  don't  know  their  name. 
I  don't  think  they  ever  go  out.     Why  did  you  ask,  Consul? 

Consul.  Whew — I  don't  know!  Those  four  red  shades 
look  like  stage  curtains  behind  which  some  sanguinary  trag- 
edies are  being  rehearsed — or  I  imagine  so,  at  least.  There 
is  a  palm  at  one  of  the  windows  looking  like  a  rod  made  of 
wire — you  can  see  the  shadow  of  it  on  the  shade.  If  only 
some  people  were  to  be  seen 

Starck.  I  have  seen  plenty  of  them,  but  not  until  later 
— at  night. 

Consul.  Was  it  men  or  women  you  saw? 

Starck.  Both,  I  guess — but  now  I  must  get  back  to  mv 
pots.  [He  disappears  into  the  gateway. 

Master.  [Still  inside,  has  risen  from  the  table  and  lighted  u 
cigar;  he  is  now  standing  at  the  open  window,  talking  to  his 
brother  outside]  I'll  be  ready  in  a  moment.  Louise  is  only 
going  to  sew  a  button  on  one  of  my  gloves. 

Consul.  Then  you  mean  to  go  down-town? 

Master.  Perhaps  we'll  take  a  turn  in  that  direction — 
Whom  were  you  talking  with? 


18G  THE    THUNDERSTORM     scene  i 


Consul.  Just  the  confectioner- 


M  vster.  Oh,  yes — a  very  decent  fellow — and,  for  that 
matter,  my  only  companion  here  during  the  summer. 

Consul.  Have  you  really  stayed  at  home  every  night — 
never  gone  out? 

Master.  Never!  Those  light  evenings  make  me  timid. 
They  are  pleasant  in  the  country,  of  course,  but  here  in  the 
city  they  produce  the  effect  of  something  unnatural — al- 
most ghastly.  But  no  sooner  has  the  first  street  lamp  been 
lighted  than  I  feel  calm  once  more  and  can  resume  my 
evening  walks.  In  that  way  I  can  get  tired  and  sleep  better 
at  night.  [Louise  hands  him  the  glove]  Thank  you,  my  child. 
You  can  just  as  well  leave  the  windows  open,  as  there  are 
no  mosquitoes.  [To  the  Consul]  Now  I'm  coming. 

A  few  moments  later  he  can  be  seen  coming  out  of  the 
house  on  the  side  facing  the  square;  he  stops  at  the 
corner  to  drop  a  letter  in  the  mail-box ;  then  he  comes 
around  the  corner  to  the  front  of  the  house  and  sits 
down  on  the  bench  beside  his  brother. 

Consul.  But  tell  me:  why  do  you  stay  in  the  city  when 
you  could  be  in  the  country? 

Master.  I  don't  know.  I  have  lost  my  power  of  motion. 
My  memory  has  tied  me  for  ever  to  these  rooms.  Only 
within  them  can  I  find  peace  and  protection.  In  there — 
yes!  It  is  interesting  to  look  at  your  own  home  from  the 
outside.  Then  I  imagine  that  some  other  man  is  pacing 
back  and  forth  in  there —  Just  think:  for  ten  years  I  have 
been  pacing  back  and  forth  in  there! 

Consul.  Is  it  ten  years  now? 

Master.  Yes,  time  goes  quickly — once  it  is  gone.  But 
when  it  is  still  going  it  seems  slow  enough. — That  time  the 
li  nis.-  WB8  new.  I  watched  them  putting  down  the  hard- 
\\<)<><1   floor  in  the  dining-room  and  painting  the  doors;  and 


scene  i     THE    THUNDERSTORM  187 

she  was  permitted  to  pick  out  the  wall-paper,  which  is  still 
there—  Yes,  that  was  then !  The  confectioner  and  I  are  the 
oldest  tenants  in  the  place,  and  he,  too,  has  had  a  few  ex- 
periences of  his  own— he  is  one  of  those  people  who  never 
succeed  but  are  always  in  some  kind  of  trouble.  In  a  way,  I 
have  been  living  his  life  also,  and  bearing  his  burdens  besides 
my  own. 

Consul.  Does  he  drink,  then? 

Master.  No-o— nothing  of  that  kind,  but  there  is  no  go 
to  him.  Well,  he  and  I  know  the  history  of  this  house:  how 
they  have  arrived  in  bridal  coaches  and  left  in  hearses,  while 
the  mail-box  at  the  corner  became  the  recipient  of  all  their 
confidences. 

Consul.  There  was  a  death  here  in  the  middle  of  the  sum- 
mer, wasn't  there? 

Master.  Yes,  a  case  of  typhoid — the  man  was  manager 
of  a  bank— and  then  the  flat  stood  vacant  for  a  month. 
The  coffin  came  out  first,  then  the  widow  and  the  children, 
and  last  of  all  the  furniture. 

Consul.  That  was  on  the  second  floor? 
Master.  Yes,  up  there,  where  you  see  the  light — where 
those  new  people  are,  about  whom  I  know  nothing  at  all. 
Consul.  Haven't  you  seen  anj'thing  of  them  either? 
Master.  I  never  ask  any  questions  about  the  other  ten- 
ants.    What  comes  to  me  unasked,  I  accept — but  I  never 
make  any  wrong  use  of  it,  and  I  never  interfere,  for  I  am 
anxious  for  the  peace  of  my  old  age. 

Consul.  Old  age — yes!  I  think  it's  nice  to  grow  old,  for 
then  there  isn't  so  much  left  to  be  recorded. 

Master.  Indeed,  it  is  nice.  I  am  settling  my  accounK 
both  with  life  and  with  people,  and  I  have  already  begun  to 
pack  for  the  journey.  Of  course,  the  solitude  has  its  draw- 
backs, but  when  there  is  nobody  who  can  make  any  demands 


188  THE    THUNDERSTORM     scene  i 

on  you,  then  you  have  won  your  freedom — the  freedom  to 
come  and  go,  to  think  and  act,  to  eat  and  sleep,  in  accordance 
with  your  own  choice. 

At  this  moment  the  shade  in  one  of  the  windows  on  the 
second  floor  is  raised  a  little  way,  so  that  part  of  a 
woman  s  dress  becomes  visible.     Then  it  is  quickly 
drawn  again. 
Consul.  They  are  astir  up  there — did  you  see? 
Master.  Yes,  there  is  such  a  lot  of  mystery  about  it — 
and  at  night  it  is  worse  than  ever.     Sometimes  there  is  music, 
but  it's  always  bad;  and  sometimes  I  think  they  are  playing 
cards;  and  long  after  midnight  carriages  drive  up  and  take 
away  people. — I  never  make  a  complaint  against  other  ten- 
ants, for  then  they  want  to  get  even,  and  nobody  wants  to 
change  his  ways.     The  best  thing  is  to  remain  oblivious  of 
everything. 

A  gentleman,  dressed  in  a  dinner  coat  but  bareheaded, 
comes  out  of  the  house  and  drops  a  big  pile  of  letters 
into  the  mail-box;  then  fie  disappears  into  the  house 
again. 
Consul.  That  fellow  must  have  a  lot  of  correspondence. 
Master.  It  looked  to  me  like  circulars. 
Consul.  But  who  is  he? 

Master.  Why,  that's  the  new  tenant  up  there  on  the 
second  floor. 

Consul.  Oh,  is  that  so!     What  do  you  think  he  looked  like? 

M  \sti;k.  I  don't  know.     Musician,  conductor,  a  touch  of 

muscial   comedy,   with  a  leaning  to  vaudeville — gambler — 

A 'Ion  is     ;i  little  of  everything 

( lONSUL.  Black  hair  should  have  gone  with  that  pale  com- 
plexion of  his,  but  his  hair  was  brown — which  means  that  it 
had  been  dyed,  or  that  he  wears  a  wig.  A  tuxedo  at  home 
indicates  an   empty  wardrobe,  and  the  movements  of  his 


bcenei     THE    THUNDERSTORM  189 

hands  as  lie  dropped  the  letters  into  the  box  suggested  shuf- 
fling and  cutting  and  dealing—  [At  this  moment  waltz  music 
becomes  faintly  audible  from  the  second  floor]  Always  waltzes— 
perhaps  they  have  a  dancing-school— but  it's  always  the  same 
waltz — what's  the  name  of  it  now? 

Master.  Why,  I  think— that's  "Pluie  d'or"— I  know  it 
by  heart. 

Consul.  Have  you  heard  it  in  your  own  house? 
Master.  Yes,  that  one  and  the  "Alcazar  Waltz." 

Louise  becomes  visible  in  the  dining-room,  where  she  is 
flitting  things  in  order  and  wiping  the  glassware  on 
the  buffet. 
Consul.  Are  you  still  pleased  with  Louise? 
Master.  Very. 

Consul.  Isn't  she  going  to  marry? 
Master.  Not  that  I  know  of. 
Consul.  Is  there  no  fiance  in  sight? 
Master.  Why  do  you  ask? 

Consul.  Have  you  had  any  thoughts  of  that  kind? 
Master.  I?  No,  thank  you!  When  I  married  the  last 
time  I  was  not  too  old,  as  we  had  a  child  in  due  time,  but  I 
have  grown  too  old  since  then,  and  now  I  want  to  spend  my 
evening  in  peace —  Do  you  think  I  want  another  master  in 
my  own  house,  who  would  rob  me  of  life  and  honour  and 
goods? 

Consul.  Oh,  nobody  took  your  life  ur  your  goods 

Master.  Do  you  mean  to  say  that  my  honour  suffered  any 
harm? 
Consul.  Don't  you  know? 
Master.  What  do  you  mean? 
Consul.  In  leaving  you,  she  killed  your  honour. 
Master.  Then  I  have  been  a  dead  man  for  five  years 
without  knowing  it. 


190         THE    THUNDERSTORM     scene  l 

Consul.  You  haven't  known  it? 

Master.  No,  but  now  I'll  tell  you  in  a  few  words  what 
really  happened.  When,  at  fifty,  I  married  a  girl  much 
younger  than  myself — one  whose  heart  I  had  won  and  who 
gave  me  her  hand  fearlessly  and  willingly — then  I  promised 
her  that  if  ever  my  age  should  become  a  burden  to  her  youth 
I  would  go  my  own  way  and  give  her  back  her  freedom. 
Since  the  child  had  come  in  due  time,  and  neither  one  of  us 
wanted  another,  and  since  our  little  girl  had  begun  to  grow 
apart  from  me,  so  that  I  had  come  to  feel  superfluous,  I  did 
go  my  way — that  is,  I  took  a  boat,  as  we  were  living  on  an 
island — and  that  was  the  end  of  the  whole  story.  I  had 
redeemed  my  promise  and  saved  my  honour — what  more 
besides? 

Consul.  All  right — but  she  thought  it  an  attack  on  her 
own  honour,  because  she  had  meant  to  go  away  herself.  And 
so  she  killed  you  by  tacit  accusations  which  never  reached 
your  ears. 

Master.  Did  she  accuse  herself  also? 

Consul.  No,  she  had  no  reason  to  do  so. 

Master.  Then  no  harm  has  been  done. 

Consul.  Do  you  know  what  has  become  of  her  and  the 
child  since  then? 

Master.  I  don't  want  to  know!  Having  at  last  outlived 
the  horrors  of  longing,  I  came  to  regard  the  whole  business  as 
buried;  and  as  none  but  beautiful  memories  were  left  behind 
in  our  rooms,  I  remained  where  I  was.  However,  I  thank 
you  for  that  piece  of  valuable  information! 

Consul.  Which  one? 

Master.  That  she  had  no  reason  for  self-accusation,  for 
if  she  had  it  would  constitute  an  accusation  against  me 

Consul.  I  think  you  are  living  under  a  serious  miscon- 
ception  


scene  i     THE    THUNDERSTORM  191 

Master.  If  I  am,  leave  me  alone!  A  dear  conscience 
comparatively  clear,  at  least — has  always  been  the  diving-suit 
that  has  enabled  me  to  descend  into  the  vast  deeps  without 
being  suffocated.  [Riving]  To  think  of  it — that  I  got  out 
of  it  with  my  life!  And  now  it's  all  over! — Suppose  we 
take  a  turn  down  the  avenue? 

Consul.  All  right,  then  we  can  see  them  light  the  first 
street  lamp  of  the  season. 

Master.  But  won't  the  moon  be  up  to-night — the  harvest- 
moon? 

Consul.  Why,  I  think  the  moon  is  full  just  now— 


Master.  [Going  to  one  of  the  windows  and  talking  into  the 
dining-room]  Please  hand  me  my  stick,  Louise.  The  light 
one — I  just  want  to  hold  it  in  my  hand. 

Louise.  [Handing  out  a  cane  of  bamboo]  Here  it  is,  sir. 

Master.  Thank  you,  my  girl.  Now  turn  out  the  light 
in  the  dining-room  if  you  have  nothing  to  do  there.  We'll  be 
gone  a  little  while — I  cannot  tell  just  how  long. 

The  Master  and  the  Consul  go  out  to  the  left.  Louise 
remaiyis  standing  by  the  open  window.  Starck  comes 
out  of  the  gateway. 

Starck.  Good  evening,  Miss  Louise.  It's  awfully  hot! — 
So  your  gentlemen  have  disappeared? 

Louise.  They  have  gone  for  a  stroll  down  the  avenue — 
the  first  time  my  master  has  gone  out  this  summer. 

Starck.  We  old  people  love  the  twilight,  which  covers  up 
so  many  defects  both  in  ourselves  and  others.  Do  you  know, 
Miss  Louise,  my  old  woman  is  getting  blind,  but  she  won't 
have  an  operation  performed.  She  says  there  is  nothing  to 
look  at,  and  that  sometimes  she  wishes  she  were  deaf,  too. 

Louise.  Well,  one  does  feel  that  wa> — at  times. 

Starck.  Of  course,  you  are  leading  a  very  quiet  life  in  there, 
witli  plenty  of  everything,  and  nothing  to  worry  about.     I 


1  ii j         T  HE    THUNDERSTORM     scene  i 

have  never  heard  a  loud  voice  or  the  slamming  of  a  door — 
perhaps,  even,  it  is  a  little  too  quiet  for  a  young  lady  like 

yourself? 

Louise.  Not  at  all!  I  love  the  quiet,  and  whatever  is  dig- 
nified, graceful,  measured — with  nobody  blurting  out  things, 
and  all  thinking  it  a  duty  to  overlook  the  less  pleasant  fea- 
tures of  daily  life. 

Starck.  And  you  have  never  any  company? 

Louise.  No,  only  the  consul  comes  here — and  the  like  of 
the  love  between  those  two  brothers  I  have  never  seen. 

Starck.  Who  is  the  elder  of  the  two? 

Louise.  That's  more  than  I  can  tell.  Whether  there  is  a 
year  or  two  between  them,  or  they  are  twins,  I  don't  know, 
for  they  treat  each  other  with  mutual  respect,  as  if  each 
one  of  them  was  the  elder  brother. 

Agnes  appears,  trying  to  get  past  Starck  without  being 
seen  by  him. 

Starck.  Where  are  you  going,  girl?    • 

Agnes.  Oh,  I  am  just  going  out  for  a  little  walk. 

Starck.  That's  right,  but  get  back  soon. 
Agnes  goes  out. 

Starck.  Do  you  think  your  master  is  still  mourning  the 
loss  of  his  dear  ones? 

Louise.  He  doesn't  mourn — he  doesn't  even  feel  any  re- 
grets, for  he  doesn't  want  them  back — but  he  is  always  with 
them  in  his  memory,  where  he  keeps  only  their  beautiful 
traits. 

Starck.  But  doesn't  the  fate  of  his  daughter  trouble  him 
at  times? 

Louise.  Yes,  he  cannot  help  fearing  that  the  mother 
may  have  married  again,  and  then,  of  course,  everything  de- 
pends on  how  the  child's  stepfather  turns  out. 

Starck.  I  have  been  told  that  the  wife  refused  alimony  at 


scene  i     THE    THUNDERSTORM  L93 

first,  but  that  now,  when  five  years  have  passed,  she  has 
sent  him  a  lawyer  with  a  demand  for  many  thousands 

Louise.  [With  reserve]  I  know  nothing  about  it. 

Starck.  I  believe,  however,  that  she  was  never  more  beau- 
tiful than  in  his  memory 

The  Liquordealer's  Man.  [Enters,  carrying  a  crateful  of 
bottles]  Excuse  me,  but  does  Mr.  Fischer  live  here? 

Louise.  Mr.  Fischer?     Not  so  far  as  I  know. 

Starck.  Perhaps  Fischer  is  the  name  of  that  fellow  on 
the  second  floor?     Around  the  corner — one  flight  up. 

The  Liquordealer's  Man.  [Going  toward  the  square]  One 
flight  up — thanks.  [He  disappears  around  the  corner. 

Louise.  Carrying  up  bottles  again — that  means  another 
sleepless  night. 

Starck.  What  kind  of  people  are  they?  Why  don't  they 
ever  show  themselves? 

Louise.  I  suppose  they  use  the  back-stairs,  for  I  have  never 
seen  them.     But  I  do  hear  them. 

Starck.  Yes,  I  have  also  heard  doors  bang  and  corks  pop 
— and  the  popping  of  other  things,  too,  I  guess. 

Louise.  And  they  never  open  their  windows,  in  spite  of 
the  heat — they  must  be  Southerners. — Why,  that's  lightning 
— a  lot  of  it! — I  guess  it's  nothing  but  heat-lightning,  for 
there  has  been  no  thunder. 

A  Voice.  [Is  heard  from  the  basement]  Starck,  dear,  won't 
you  come  down  and  help  me  put  in  the  sugar! 

Starck.  All  right,  old  lady,  I'm  coming!  [To  Louise]  We 
are  making  jam,  you  know.  [As  he  goes]  I'm  coming,  I'm 
coming!  [lie  disappears  into  the  gateway  again. 

Louise  remains  standing  at  the  window. 

Consul.  [Enters  slowly  from  the  right]  Isn't  my  brother 
back  yet? 

Louise.  No,  sir. 


194  THE    THUNDERSTORM     scene  i 

Consul.  He  wanted  to  telephone,  and  I  was  to  go  ahead. 
Well,  I  suppose  he'll  be  here  soon. — What's  this?  [He  stoops 
to  pick  up  a  post-card]  What  does  it  say? — "Boston  club  at 
midnight:  Fischer." — Do  you  know  who  Fischer  is,  Louise? 

Louise.  There  was  a  man  with  a  lot  of  wine  looking  for 
1'i^her  a  while  ago — up  on  the  second  floor. 

Consul.  On  the  second  floor — Fischer!  Red  shades  that 
make  the  place  look  like  a  drug-store  window  at  night!  I 
fear  you  have  got  bad  company  in  the  house. 

Louise.  What  is  a  Boston  club? 

Consul.  Oh,  there  need  be  no  harm  in  it  at  all — in  this 
case  I  don't  know,  however. — But  how  did  the  post-card — ? 
Oh,  it  was  he  who  dropped  it  a  while  ago.  Then  I'll  put  it 
back  in  the  box. — Fischer?  I  have  heard  that  name  before. 
In  connection  with  something  I  cannot  recall  just  now — 
May  I  ask  a  question,  Miss  Louise:  does  my  brother  never 
speak  of — the  past? 

Louise.  Not  to  me. 

Consul.  Miss  Louise — one  more  question 

Louise.  Excuse  me,  but  here  comes  the  milk,  and  I  have 
to  receive  it.  [She  leaves  the  dining-room. 

The  Milkmaid  appears  from  the  right  and  enters  the 
house  from  the  square. 

Starck.  [Comes  out  again,  takes  off  his  white  linen  cap,  and 
puffs  with  heat]  In  and  out,  like  a  badger  at  its  hole — it's  per- 
fectly  horrid  down  there  by  the  ovens — and  the  evening 
doesn't  make  it  any  cooler. 

Consul.  All  this  lightning  shows  that  we  are  going  to 
have  rain—  Well,  the  city  isn't  pleasant,  exactly,  but  up 
lure  you  have  quiet  at  least:  never  any  rattling  carriages, 
and  still  lesa  any  street-cars — it's  just  like  the  country. 

Starck.  Of  course,  it's  quiet,  but  it's  too  quiet  for  busi- 
ness.    I  know  my  trade,  but  I  am  a  poor  salesman — have 


scene  i     T  II  E    THUND  E  RSTORM  1 96 

always  been,  and  can't  learn — or  it  may  be  something  else. 
Perhaps  I  haven't  got  the  proper  manner.  For  when  cus- 
tomers act  as  if  I  were  a  swindler  I  get  embarrassed  at  first, 
and  then  as  mad  as  it  is  possible  for  me  to  become.  But 
nowadays  I  haven't  the  strength  to  get  really  mad.  It  has 
been  worn  out  of  me — everything  gets  worn  out. 

Consul.  Why  don't  you  go  to  work  for  somebody  else? 
Starck.  Who  would  want  me? 
Consul.  Have  you  ever  tried? 
Starck.  What  would  be  the  use  of  it? 
Consul.  Oh — well! 

At  this  moment  a  long-drawn  "O-oh"  is  heard  from  the 
apartment  on  the  second  floor. 
Starck.  What,  in  the  name  of  Heaven,  are  they  up  to  in 
that  place?     Are  they  killing  each  other? 

Consul.  I  don't  like  this  new  and  unknown  element  that 
has  come  into  the  house.  It  is  pressing  on  us  like  a  red 
thunder-cloud.  What  kind  of  people  are  they?  Where  do 
they  come  from?     What  do  they  want  here? 

Starck.  It's  so  very  dangerous  to  delve  in  other  people's 

affairs — you  get  mixed  up  in  them  yourself 

Consul.  Do  you  know  anything  about  them? 

Starck.  No,  I  don't  know  anything  at  all. 

Consul.  Now  they're  screaming  again,  this  time  in  the 

stairway 

Starck.  [Witfidrawing  into  the  gateway  and  speaking  in  a 
low  voice]  I  don't  want  to  have  anything  to  do  with  this. 

Gerda,  the  divorced  wife  of  the  Master,  comes  running 
from  the  house  into  the  square.  She  is  bareheaded, 
with  her  hair  doton,  and  very  excited.  The  Consul 
approaches  her,  and  they  recognise  each  other.  She 
draws  back  from  him. 
Consul.  So  it's  you — my  former  sister-in-law? 


19G         THE    THUNDERSTORM     scene  i 

Gerda.  Yes,  it  is  I. 

Consul.  How  did  you  get  into  this  house,  and  why  can't 
you  let  my  brother  enjoy  his  peace? 

Gerda.  [Bewildered]  They  didn't  give  us  the  right  name 
of  the  tenant  below — I  thought  he  had  moved — I  couldn't 
help  it 

Consul.  Don't  be  afraid — you  don't  have  to  be  afraid 
of  me,  Gerda!  Can  I  be  of  any  help  to  you?  What's  hap- 
pening up  there? 

Gerda.  He  was  beating  me! 

Consul.  Is  your  little  girl  with  you? 

Gerda.  Yes. 

Consul.  So  she  has  got  a  stepfather? 

Gerda.  Yes. 

Consul.  Put  up  your  hair  and  calm  yourself.  Then  I'll 
try  to  straighten  this  matter  out.     But  spare  my  brother 

Gerda.  I  suppose  he  hates  me? 

Consul.  No,  don't  you  see  that  he  has  been  taking  care 
of  your  flowers  in  the  bed  over  there?  He  brought  the  soil 
himself,  in  a  basket,  don't  you  remember?  Don't  you  recog- 
nise your  blue  gentians  and  the  mignonette,  your  Malmaison 
and  Merveille  de  Lyons  roses,  which  he  budded  himself? 
Don't  you  understand  that  he  has  cherished  the  memory  of 
yourself  and  of  the  child? 

Gerda.  Where  is  he  now? 

Consul.  Taking  a  walk  along  the  avenue,  but  he  will  be 
here  in  a  few  minutes  with  the  evening  papers.  When  he 
comes  from  that  side  he  uses  the  back  door,  and  he  goes 
Btraight  into  the  dining-room  to  read  the  papers.  Stand 
still  and  he  won't  notice  you. — But  you  must  go  back  to 
your  own  rooms 

Gerda.  I  can't!     I  can't  go  back  to  that  man. 

Consul.  Who  is  he,  and  what? 


bcenei     THE    THUNDERSTORM  l!>, 

Gerda.  He — has  been  a  singer. 

Consul.  Has  been — and  what  is  he  now?     An  adventurer? 

Gerda.  Yes! 

Consul.  Keeps  a  gambling-house? 

Gerda.  Yes! 

Consul.  And  the  child?    Bait? 

Gerda.  Oh,  don't  say  that! 

Consul.  It's  horrible! 

Gerda.  You  are  too  harsh  about  the  whole  thing. 

Consul.  Of  course,  filth  must  be  handled  gently — so  very 
gently!  But  a  just  cause  should  be  dragged  in  the  dirt. 
Why  did  you  defile  his  honour,  and  why  did  you  lure  me  into 
becoming  your  accomplice?  I  was  childish  enough  to  trust 
your  word,  and  I  defended  your  unjust  cause  against  his. 

Gerda.  You  forget  that  he  was  too  old. 

Consul.  No,  he  wasn't  then,  as  you  had  a  child  at  once. 
When  he  proposed,  he  asked  if  you  wanted  to  have  a  child 
with  him,  and  he  vowed  in  the  bargain  to  give  you  back  your 
freedom  when  his  promise  had  been  kept  and  old  age  began 
to  weigh  him  down. 

Gerda.  He  deserted  me,  and  that  was  an  insult. 

Consul.  Not  to  you!  Your  youth  prevented  it  from 
being  a  reflection  on  you. 

Gerda.  He  should  have  let  me  leave  him. 

Consul.  Why?  Why  did  you  want  to  heap  dishonour  on 
him? 

Gerda.  One  of  us  had  to  bear  it. 

Consul.  What  strange  paths  your  thoughts  pursue !  How- 
ever, you  have  killed  him,  and  fooled  me  into  helping  you. 
How  can  we  rehabilitate  him? 

Gerda.  If  he  is  to  be  rehabilitated,  it  can  only  be  at  my 
expense. 

Consul.  I   cannot   follow   your   thoughts,    which   always 


198         THE    THUNDERSTOR  M     scene  i 

turn  to  hatred.  But  suppose  we  leave  the  rehabilitation 
alone  and  think  only  of  how  his  daughter  is  to  be  saved: 
what  can  we  do  then? 

Gerda.  She  is  my  child.     She's  mine  by  law,  and  my  hus- 
band is  her  father 

Consul.  Now  you  are  too  harsh  about  it!     And  you  have 
grown  cruel  and  vulgar —     Hush!     Here  he  comes  now. 

The  Master  enters  from  the  left  with  a  neicspaper  in 
his  hand;  he  goes  into  the  house  pensively  by  the  back 
door,  ichile  the  Consul  and  Gerda  remain  motion- 
less, hidden  behind  the  corner  of  the  house. 
Then  the  Consul  and  Gerda  come  down  the  stage.  A 
moment  later  the  Master  becomes  visible  in  the  dining- 
room,  where  he  sits  down  to  read  the  paper. 
Gerda.  It  was  he! 

Consul.  Come  over  here  and  look  at  your  home.     See  how 
he  has  kept  everything  as  it  was — arranged  to  suit  your  taste. 
— Don't  be  afraid.     It's  so  dark  out  here  that  he  can't  see  us. 
The  light  in  the  room  blinds  him,  you  know. 
Gerda.  How  he  has  been  lying  to  me! 
Consul.  In  what  respect? 

Gerda.  He  hasn't  grown  old!  He  had  grown  tired  of  me 
—that  was  the  whole  thing!  Look  at  his  collar — and  his  tie 
— the  very  latest  fashion!     I  am  sure  he  has  a  mistress! 

Consul.  Yes,  you  can  see  her  photograph  on  the  mantel- 
shelf, between  the  candelabra. 

Gerda.  It  is  myself  and  the  child!     Does  he  still  love  me? 
Consul.  Your  memory  only! 
Gerda.  That's  strange! 

The  Master  ceases  to  read  and  stares  out  through  the 
window. 
I  rEBDA.  He  is  looking  at  us! 
Consul.  Don't  move! 


scene  i     THE    THUNDERSTORM  199 

Gerda.  He  is  looking  straight  into  my  eyes. 
Consul.  Be  still !     He  doesn't  see  you. 

Gerda.  He  looks  as  if  he  were  dead 

Consul.  Well,  he  has  been  killed. 
Gerda.  Why  do  you  talk  like  that? 

An  unusually  strong  flash  of  heat-lightning  illumines  the 

figures  of  the  Consul  and  Gerda. 
The  Master  rises  with  an  expression  of  horror  on  his 
face.     Gerda  takes  refuge  behind  the  corner  of  the 
house. 
Master.  Carl  Frederick!  [Coming  to  the  window]  Are  you 
alone?     I  thought —     Are  you  really  alone? 
Consul.  As  you  see. 

Master.  The  air  is  so  sultry,  and  the  flowers  give  me  a 
headache —     I  am  just  going  to  finish  the  newspaper. 

[He  resumes  his  former  position. 
Consul.  Now  let  us  get  at  your  affairs.     Do  you  want  me 
to  go  with  you? 

Gerda.  Perhaps!     But  it  will  be  a  hard  struggle. 
Consul.  But  the  child  must  be  saved.     And  I  am  a  lawyer. 
Gerda.  Well,  for  the  child's  sake,  then!     Come  with  me! 

[They  go  out  together. 
Master.  [Calling from  within]  Carl  Frederick,  come  in  and 
have  a  game  of  chess! — Carl  Frederick! 

Curtain. 


SECOND    SCENE 

Inside  the  dining-room.  The  brick  stove  appears  at  the  centre 
of  the  rear  wall.  To  the  left  of  it  there  is  a  door  leading 
info  the  pantry.  Another  door  to  the  right  of  it  leads  to  the 
hallway.  At  the  left  stands  a  buffet  with  a  telephone  on  it. 
A  piano  and  a  tall  clock  stand  at  the  right.  There  are 
doors  in  both  side  walls. 

The  Master  is  in  the  room,  and  Louise  enters  as  the  curtain 
rises. 

Master.  Where  did  my  brother  go? 

Louise.  [Alarmed]  He  was  outside  a  moment  ago.  He 
can't  be  very  far  away. 

Master.  What  a  dreadful  noise  they  are  making  up  above! 
It  is  as  if  they  were  stepping  on  my  head!  Now  they  are 
pulling  out  bureau  drawers  as  if  they  were  were  preparing  for 
a  journey — running  away,  perhaps. — If  you  only  knew  how  to 
play  chess,  Louise! 

Louise.  I  know  a  little 

M  \ster.  Oh,  if  you  just  know  how  to  move  the  pieces, 
that  will  be  enough —  Sit  down,  child.  [He  sets  up  the  chess 
pieces]  They  are  carrying  on  up  there  so  that  they  make  the 
chandelier  rattle — and  the  confectioner  is  heating  up  down 
below.     I  think  I'll  have  to  move  soon. 

Louise.  I  have  long  thought  that  you  ought  to  do  so  any- 
how. 

Master.  Anyhow? 

200 


scene  ii    THE    THUNDERSTORM  201 

Louise.  It  isn't  good  to  stay  too  long  among  old  memories. 

Master.  Why  not?  As  time  passes,  all  memories  "row 
beautiful. 

Louise.  But  you  may  live  twenty  years  more,  and  that  is 
too  long  a  time  to  live  among  memories  which,  after  all,  must 
fade  and  which  may  change  colour  entirely  some  fine  day. 

Master.  How  much  you  know,  my  child!— Begin  now 
by  moving  a  pawn — but  not  the  one  in  front  of  the  queen, 
or  you  will  be  mate  in  two  moves. 

Louise.  Then  I  start  with  the  knight 

Master.  Hardly  less  dangerous,  girl ! 

Louise.  But  I  think  I'll  start  with  the  knight  just  the 
same. 

Master.  All  right.     Then  I'll  move  my  bishop's  pawn. 
Starck  appears  in  the  hallway,  carrying  a  tray. 

Louise.  There's  Mr.  Starck  with  the  tea-cakes.  He 
doesn't  make  any  more  noise  than  a  mouse. 

[She  rises  and  goes  out  into  the  hallway  to  receive  the  tray, 
which  she  then  carries  into  the  pantry. 

Master.  Well,  Mr.  Starck,  how  is  the  old  lady? 

Starck.  Oh,  thank  you,  her  eyes  are  about  as  usual. 

Master.  Have  you  seen  anything  of  my  brother? 

Starck.  He  is  walking  back  and  forth  outside,  I  think. 

Master.  Has  he  got  any  company? 

Starck.  No-o — I  don't  think  so. 

Master.  It  wasn't  yesterday  you  had  a  look  at  these 
rooms,  Mr.  Starck. 

Starck.  I  should  say  not — it's  just  ten  years  ago  now 

Master.  When  you  brought  the  wedding-cake. — Does  the 
place  look  changed? 

Starck.  It  is  just  as  it  was — the  palms  have  grown,  of 
course — but  the  rest  is  just  as  it  was. 


202  THE    THUNDERSTORM    scene  n 

Master.  And  will  remain  so  until  you  bring  the  funeral 
cake.  When  you  have  passed  a  certain  age,  nothing  changes, 
nothing  progresses — all  the  movement  is  downward  like  that 
of  a  sleigh  going  down-hill. 

Starck.  Yes,  that's  the  way  it  is. 

Master.  And  it  is  peaceful,  the  way  I  have  it  here.  No 
love,  no  friends,  only  a  little  company  to  break  up  the 
solitude.  Then  human  beings  are  just  human  beings,  with- 
out any  claims  on  your  feelings  and  sympathies.  Then  you 
come  loose  like  an  old  tooth,  and  drop  out  without  pain  or 
regrets.  Take  Louise,  for  instance — a  pretty  young  girl, 
the  sight  of  whom  pleases  me  like  a  work  of  art  that  I  don't 
wish  to  possess — there  is  nothing  to  disturb  our  relationship. 
My  brother  and  I  meet  like  two  old  gentlemen  who  never  get 
too  close  to  each  other  and  never  exact  any  confidences.  By 
taking  up  a  neutral  position  toward  one's  fellow-men,  one 
attains  a  certain  distance — and  as  a  rule  we  look  better  at  a 
distance.  In  a  word,  I  am  pleased  with  my  old  age  and  its 
quiet  peace —  [Calling  out]  Louise! 

Louise.  [Appearing  in  the  doorway  at  the  left  and  speaking 
pleasantly  as  always]  The  laundry  has  come  home,  and  I  have 
to  check  it  off.  [Site  disappears  again. 

Master.  Well,  Mr.  Starck,  won't  you  sit  down  and  chat  a 
little — or  perhaps  you  play  chess? 

Starck.  I  can't  stay  away  from  my  pots,  and  the  oven 
has  to  be  heated  up  at  eleven.  It's  very  kind  of  you,  how- 
ever  

Master.  If  you  catch  sight  of  my  brother,  ask  him  to 
come  in  and  keep  me  company. 

Starck.  So  I  will — so  I  will !  [He  goes. 

Master.  [Alone;  moves  a  couple  of  pieces  on  the  chess-board; 
then  gets  up  and  begins  to  walk  about]  The  peace  of  old  age — 
yes!     [He  sits  down  at  the  piano  and  strikes  a  few  chords;  then 


scene  ii    THE     THUNDERS  T  < )  II  M  203 

he  gets  up  and  walks  about  as  before]  Louise!     Can't  you  let 
the  laundry  wait  a  little? 

Louise.  [Appears  again  for  a  moment  in  the  doorway  at  the 
left]  No,  I  can't,  because  the  wash-woman  is  in  a  hurry — she 
has  husband  and  children  waiting  for  her. 

Master.  Oh !  [lie  sits  down  at  the  table  and  begins  to  drum 
with  his  fingers  on  it;  tries  to  read  the  newspaper,  but  tires  of  it; 
lights  matches  only  to  blow  them  out  again  at  once;  looks  re- 
peatedly at  the  big  clock,  until  at  last  a  noise  is  heard  from  the 
hallway]  Is  that  you,  Carl  Frederick? 

The  Mail-Carrier.  [Appears  in  the  doorway]  It's  the 
mail.  Excuse  me  for  walking  right  in,  but  the  door  was 
standing  open. 

Master.  Is  there  a  letter  for  me? 

The  Mail-Carrier.  Only  a  post-card. 

[He  hands  it  over  and  goes  out. 

Master.  [Reading  the  post-card]  Mr.  Fischer  again!  Bos- 
ton club!  That's  the  man  up  above — with  the  white  hands 
and  the  tuxedo  coat.  And  to  me!  The  impertinence  of  it! 
I  have  got  to  move! — Fischer! — [He  tears  up  the  card;  again  a 
noise  is  heard  in  the  hallway]  Is  that  you,  Carl  Frederick? 

The  Iceman.  [Without  coming  into  the  room]  It's  the  ice! 

Master.  Well,  it's  nice  to  get  ice  in  this  heat.  But  be 
careful  about  those  bottles  in  the  box.  And  put  one  of  the 
pieces  on  edge  so  that  I  can  hear  the  water  drip  from  it  as  it 
melts —  That's  my  water-clock  that  measures  out  the  hours 
— the  long  hours —  Tell  me,  where  do  you  get  the  ice  from 
nowadays?— Oh,  he's  gone! — Everybody  goes  away — goes 
home — to  hear  their  own  voices  and  get  some  company- 
[Pause]  Is  that  you,  Carl  Frederick? 

Somebody  in  the  apartment  above  plays  Chopin's  Fan- 
taisie  Impromptu,  Opus  66,  on  the  piano — but  only 
the  first  part  of  it. 


204         THE    THUNDERSTORM    scene  n 

Master.  [Begins  to  listen,  is  aroused,  looks  up  at  the  ceiling] 
My  Impromptu? 

[He  covers  his  eyes  with  one  hand  and  listens. 
The  Consul  enters  through  the  hallway. 

Master.  Is  that  you,  Carl  Frederick? 
The  music  stops. 

Consul.  It  is  I. 

Master.  Where  have  you  been  so  long? 

Consul.  I  had  some  business  to  clear  up.  Have  you  been 
alone? 

Master.  Of  course!     Come  and  play  chess  now. 

Consul.  I  prefer  to  talk.  And  you  need  also  to  hear  your 
own  voice  a  little. 

Master.  True  enough — only  it  is  so  easy  to  get  to  talking 
about  the  past. 

Consul.  That  makes  us  forget  the  present. 

Master.  There  is  no  present.  What's  just  passing  is 
empty  nothingness.  One  has  to  look  ahead  or  behind — and 
ahead  is  better,  for  there  lies  hope! 

Consul.  [Seating  himself  at  the  table]  Hope — of  what? 

Master.  Of  change. 

Consul.  Well !  Do  you  mean  to  say  you  have  had  enough 
of  the  peace  of  old  age? 

M  \ster.  Perhaps. 

Consul.  It's  certain  then.  And  if  now  you  had  the  choice 
between  solitude  and  the  past? 

Master.  No  ghosts,  however! 

Consul.  How  about  your  memories? 

Master.  They  don't  walk.  They  are  only  poems  wrought 
by  me  out  of  certain  realities.  But  if  dead  people  walk,  then 
you  have  ghosts. 

Consul.  Well,  then — in  your  memory — who  brings  you 
tin-  prettiesl  mirage:  the  woman  or  the  child? 


scene  ii    THE    THUNDERSTORM  205 

Master.  Both!  I  cannot  separate  them,  and  that's  why 
I  never  tried  to  keep  the  child. 

Consul.  But  do  yon  think  yon  did  right?  Did  the  possi- 
bility of  a  stepfather  never  occur  to  you? 

Master.  I  didn't  think  that  far  ahead  at  tin-  time,  but 
afterward,  of  course,  I  have  had — my  thoughts — about — 
that  very  thing. 

Consul.  A  stepfather  who  abused — perhaps  debased — 
your  daughter? 

Master.  Hush! 

Consul.  What  is  it  you  hear? 

Master.  I  thought  I  heard  the  "little  steps" — those  little 
steps  that  came  tripping  down  the  corridor  when  she  was 
looking  for  me. — It  was  the  child  that  was  the  best  of  all! 
To  watch  that  fearless  little  creature,  whom  nothing  could 
frighten,  who  never  suspected  that  life  might  be  deceptive, 
who  had  no  secrets!  I  recall  her  first  experience  of  the  malice 
that  is  in  human  beings.  She  caught  sight  of  a  pretty  child 
down  in  the  park,  and,  though  it  was  strange  to  her,  she  went 
up  to  it  with  open  arms  to  kiss  it — and  the  pretty  child  re- 
warded her  friendliness  by  biting  her  in  the  cheek  first  and 
then  making  a  face  at  her.  Then  you  should  have  seen  my 
little  Anne-Charlotte.  She  stood  as  if  turned  to  stone.  And 
it  wasn't  pain  that  did  it,  but  horror  at  the  sight  of  that 
yawning  abyss  which  is  called  the  human  heart.  I  have 
been  confronted  with  the  same  sight  myself  once,  when  out  of 
two  beautiful  ej'es  suddenly  shot  strange  glances  as  if  some 
evil  beast  had  appeared  behind  those  eyes.  It  scared  me 
literally  so  that  I  had  to  see  if  some  other  person  were  stand- 
ing behind  that  face,  which  looked  like  a  mask. — But  why  do 
we  sit  here  talking  about  such  things?  Is  it  the  heat,  or 
the  storm,  or  what? 

Consul.  Solitude  brings  heavy  thoughts,  and  you  oughl 


206         THE    THUNDERSTORM    scene  n 

to  have  company.  This  summer  in  the  city  seems  to  have 
been  rather  hard  on  you. 

Mastek.  Only  these  last  few  weeks.  The  sickness  and 
that  death  up  above — it  was  as  if  I  had  gone  through  it  my- 
self. The  sorrows  and  cares  of  the  confectioner  have  also 
become  my  own,  so  that  I  keep  worrying  about  his  finances, 
about  his  wife's  eye  trouble,  about  his  future — and  of  late 
I  have  been  dreaming  every  night  about  my  little  Anne- 
Charlotte.  I  see  her  surrounded  by  dangers — unknown,  un- 
discovered, nameless.  And  before  I  fall  asleep  my  hear- 
ing grows  so  unbelievably  acute  that  I  can  hear  her  little 
steps — and  once  I  heard  her  voice 

Consul.  But  where  is  she  then? 

Master.  Don't  ask  me! 

Consul.  And  if  you  were  to  meet  her  on  the  street? 

Master.  I  imagine  that  I  should  lose  my  reason  or  fall  in  a 
faint.  Once,  you  know,  I  stayed  abroad  very  long,  during 
the  very  time  when  our  youngest  sister  was  growing  up. 
When  I  returned,  after  several  years,  I  was  met  at  the  steam- 
boat landing  by  a  young  girl  who  put  her  arms  around  my 
neck.  I  was  horrified  at  those  eyes  that  searched  mine,  but 
with  unfamiliar  glances — glances  that  expressed  absolute 
terror  at  not  being  recognised.  "It  is  I,"  she  repeated  again 
and  again  before  at  last  I  was  able  to  recognise  my  own  sister. 
And  that's  how  I  imagine  it  would  be  for  me  to  meet  my 
daughter  again.  Five  years  are  enough  to  render  you  un- 
recognisable at  that  age.  Think  of  it:  not  to  know  your  own 
child!  That  child,  who  is  the  same  as  before,  and  yet  a 
Stranger!  I  couldn't  survive  such  a  thing.  No,  then  I  prefer 
to  keep  the  little  girl  of  four  years  whom  you  see  over  there 
vn  t  lie  altar  of  my  home.  I  want  no  other  one.  [Pause]  That 
must  be  Louise  putting  things  to  rights  in  the  linen  closet. 
It  has  such  a  clean  smell,  and  it  reminds  me — oh,  the  house- 


scene ii    THE    THUNDERSTORM         207 

wife  at  her  linen  closet;  the  good  fairy  that  preserves  and  re- 
news; the  housewife  with  her  iron,  who  smooths  out  all  that 
has  been  ruffled  up  and  who  takes  out  all  wrinkles — the 
wrinkles,  yes —  [Pause]  Now — I'll — go  in  there  to  write  a 
letter.     If  you'll  stay,  I'll  be  out  again  soon. 

[He  goes  out  to  the  left. 
The  Consul  coughs. 

Gerda.  [Appears  in  the  door  to  the  hallway]  Are  you — 
[The  clock  strikes]  Oh,  mercy!  .That  sound — which  has  re- 
mained in  my  ears  for  ten  years!  That  clock  which  never 
kept  time  and  yet  measured  the  long  hours  and  days  and 
nights  of  five  years.  [She  looks  around]  My  piano — my  palms 
— the  dinner-table — he  has  kept  it  in  honour,  shining  as  a 
shield!  My  buffet — with  the  "Knight  in  Armour"  and 
"Eve" — Eve  with  her  basketful  of  apples —  In  the  right- 
hand  upper  drawer,  way  back,  there  was  a  thermometer 
lying —  [Pause]  I  wonder  if  it  is  still  there?  [She  goes  to  the 
buffet  and  pulls  out  the  right-hand  drawer]  Yes,  there  it  is! 

Consul.  What  does  that  mean? 

Gerda.  Oh,  in  the  end  it  became  a  symbol — of  instability. 
When  we  went  to  housekeeping  the  thermometer  was  not 
put  in  its  place  at  once — of  course,  it  ought  to  be  outside  the 
window.  I  promised  to  put  it  up — and  forgot  it.  He  prom- 
ised, and  forgot.  Then  we  nagged  each  other  about  it,  and 
at  last,  to  get  away  from  it,  I  hid  it  in  this  drawer.  I  came 
to  hate  it,  and  so  did  he.  Do  you  know  what  was  back  of 
all  that?  Neither  one  of  us  believed  that  our  relationship 
would  last,  because  we  unmasked  at  once  and  gave  free  vent 
to  our  antipathies.  To  begin  with,  we  lived  on  tiptoe,  so 
to  speak— always  ready  to  fly  off  at  a  moment's  notice. 
That  was  what  the  thermometer  stood  for— and  here  it  is 
still  lying!  Always  on  the  move,  always  changeable,  like  the 
weather.    [She  puts  away  the  thermometer  and  goes  over  to  the 


£08         THE    THUNDERSTORM    scene  n 

chess-board\  My  chess  pieces!  Which  he  bought  to  kill  the 
time  that  hung  heavy  on  our  hands  while  we  were  waiting 
for  the  little  one  to  come.     With  whom  does  he  play  now? 

Consul.  With  me. 

Gerda.  Where  is  he? 

Consul.  He  is  in  his  room  writing  a  letter. 

Gekda.  Where? 

Consul.  [Pointing  toicard  the  left]  There. 

Gerda.  [Shocked]  And  here  he  has  been  going  for  five 
years? 

Consul.  Ten  years — five  of  them  alone! 

Gerda.  Of  course,  he  loves  solitude. 

Consul.  But  I  think  he  has  had  enough  of  it. 

Gerda.  Will  he  turn  me  out? 

Consul.  Find  out  for  yourself!  You  take  no  risk,  as  he 
is  always  polite. 

Gerda.  I  didn't  make  that  centrepiece 

Consul.  That  is  to  say,  you  risk  his  asking  you  for  the 
child. 

Gerda.  But  it  was  he  who  should  help  me  find  it  again 

Consul.  Where  do  you  think  Fischer  has  gone,  and  what 
can  be  the  purpose  of  his  flight? 

Gerda.  To  get  away  from  the  unpleasant  neighbourhood, 
Bret  of  all;  then  to  make  me  run  after  him.  And  he  wanted 
the  girl  as  a  hostage,  of  course. 

Consul.  As  to  the  ballet — that's  something  the  father 
must  not  know,  for  he  hates  music-halls. 

Gerda.  [Sitting  down  in  front  of  the  chess-board  and  begin- 
ning, absent-mindedly,  to  arrange  the  pieces)  Music-halls — oh, 
I  have  been  there  myself. 

Consul.  You? 

Gerda.  I  have  accompanied  on  the  piano. 


scene  ii    THE    THUNDERSTORM  209 

Consul.  Poor  Gerda! 

Gerda.  Why?  I  love  that  kind  of  life.  And  when  I  was 
a  prisoner  here,  it  wasn't  the  keeper,  but  the  prison  itself,  that 
made  me  fret. 

Consul.  But  now  you  have  had  enough? 

Gerda.  Now  I  am  in  love  with  peace  and  solitude — and 
with  my  child  above  all. 

Consul.  Hush,  he's  coming! 

Gerda.  [Rises  as  if  to  run  aivay,  but  sinks  down  on  the  chair 
again]  Oh! 

Consul.  Now  I  leave  you.  Don't  think  of  what  you  are 
to  say.  It  will  come  of  itself,  like  the  "next  move"  in  a  game 
of  chess. 

Gerda.  I  fear  his  first  glance  most  of  all,  for  it  will  tell  me 
whether  I  have  changed  for  better  or  for  worse — whether 
I  have  grown  old  and  ugly. 

Consul.  [Going  out  to  the  right]  If  he  finds  you  looking 
older,  then  he  will  dare  to  approach  you.  If  he  finds  you  as 
young  as  ever,  he  will  have  no  hope,  for  he  is  more  diffident 
than  you  think. — Now! 

The  Master  is  seen  outside,  passing  by  the  door  leading 
to  the  pantry;  he  carries  a  letter  in  his  hand;  then  he 
disappears,  only  to  become  visible  again  a  moment 
later  in  the  hallway,  where  he  opens  the  outside  door 
and  steps  out. 

Consul.  [In  the  doorway  at  the  right]  He  went  out  to  the 
mail -box. 

Gerda.  No,  this  is  too  much  for  me!  How  can  I  possibly 
ask  him  to  help  me  with  this  divorce?  I  want  to  get  out! 
It's  too  brazen! 

Consul.  Stay!  You  know  that  his  kindness  has  no  lim- 
its.    And  he'll  help  you  for  the  child's  sake. 


oio         THE    THUNDERSTORM    scene  ii 

Gerda.  No,  no! 

Consul.  And  he  is  the  only  one  who  can  help  you. 

Master.  [Enters  quickly  from  the  hallway  and  nods  at 
Gerda,  whom,  because  of  his  near-sightedness,  he  mistakes  for 
Louise;  then  he  goes  to  the  buffet  and  picks  up  the  telephone, 
but  in  passing  he  remarks  to  Gerda]  So  you're  done  already? 
Well,  get  the  pieces  ready  then,  and  we'll  begin  all  over  again 
— from  the  beginning. 

Gerda  stands  paralysed,  not  understanding  the  situa- 
tion. 

Master.  [Speaks  in  the  telephone  receiver,  with  his  back  to 
Gerda]  Hello! — Good  evening!  Is  that  you,  mother? — 
Pretty  well,  thank  you!  Louise  is  waiting  to  play  a  game  of 
chess  with  me,  but  she  is  a  little  tired  after  a  lot  of  bother — 
It's  all  over  now — ever3Tthing  all  right — nothing  serious  at  all. 
—If  it's  hot?  Well,  there  has  been  a  lot  of  thundering,  right 
over  our  heads,  but  nobody  has  been  struck.  False  alarm! — 
What  did  you  say?  Fischer? — Yes,  but  I  think  they  are  going 
to  leave. — Why  so?  I  know  nothing  in  particular. — Oh,  is  that 
so? — Yes,  it  leaves  at  six-fifteen,  by  the  outside  route,  and  it 
gets  there — let  me  see — at  eight-twenty-five. — Did  you  have 
a  good  time? — [With  a  little  laugh]  Oh,  he's  impossible  when 
he  gets  started!  And  what  did  Marie  have  to  say  about  it? — 
How  I  have  had  it  during  the  summer?  Oh,  well,  Louise 
and  I  have  kept  each  other  company,  and  she  has  got  such 
an  even,  pleasant  temper. — Yes,  she  is  very  nice,  indeed! — 
Oh,  no,  nothing  of  that  kind! 

Gerda,  who  has  begun  to  understand,  rises  with  an  ex- 
pression of  consternation  on  her  face. 

M  wn.k.  My  eyes?  Oh,  I  am  getting  a  little  near-sighted. 
Hut  I  feel  like  the  confectioner's  old  wife:  there  is  nothing  to 
look  at.  Wish  I  were  deaf,  too!  Deaf  and  blind!  The 
neighbours  above  make  such  a  lot  of  noise  at  night — it's  a 


scene  ii    THE    THUNDERSTORM  211 

gambling  club —     There  now!     Somebody  got  on  the  wire  to 
listen.  [He  rings  again. 

Louise  appears  in  the  door  to  the  hallway  without  briny 
seen  by  the  Master;  Gerda  stares  at  her  with  mingled 
admiration  and  hatred;  Louise  withdraws  toward  the 
right. 
Master.  [At  the  telephone]  Is  that  you?     The  cheek  of  it 
— to  break  off  our  talk  in  order  to  listen! — To-morrow,  then, 
at  six-fifteen. — Thank  you,  and  the  same  to  you! — Yes,  I 
will,  indeed! — Good  night,  mother!  [He  rings  off. 

Louise  has  disappeared.     Gerda  is  standing  in  tfw 
middle  of  the  floor. 
Master.  [Turns  around  and  catches  sight  of  Gerda,  whom 
he  gradually  recognises;  then  he  puts  his  hand  to  his  heart]  O 
Lord,  was  that  you?     Wasn't  Louise  here  a  moment  ago? 
Gerda  remains  silent. 
Master.  [Feebly]  How — how  did  you  get  here? 
Gerda.  I  hope  you  pardon — I  just  got  to  the  city — I  was 
passing  by  and  felt  a  longing  to  have  a  look  at  my  old  home — 

the  windows  were  open [Pause. 

Master.  Do  you  find  things  as  they  used  to  be? 
Gerda.  Exactly,    and    yet    different — there    is   a    differ- 
ence  

Master.  [Feeling  unhappy]  Are  you  satisfied — with  your 
life? 

Gerda.  Yes.     I  have  what  I  was  looking  for. 
Master.  And  the  child? 

Gerda.  Oh,  she's  growing,  and  thriving,  and  lacks  nothing. 
Master.  Then  I  won't  ask  anything  more.    [Pause]   Did 
you  want  anything — of  me — can  I  be  of  any  service? 

Gerda.  It's  very  kind  of  you,  but— I  need  nothing  at  all 
now  when  I  have  seen  that  you  lack  nothing  either.  [Pause] 
Do  you  wish  to  see  Anne-Charlotte? 


212  THE    THUNDERSTORM    scene  ii 

Master.  I  don't  think  so,  now  when  I  have  heard  that  she 
is  doing  well.  It's  so  hard  to  begin  over  again.  It's  like 
having  to  repeat  a  lesson  at  school — which  you  know  already, 
although  the  teacher  doesn't  think  so —  I  have  got  so  far 
away  from  all  that — I  live  in  a  wholly  different  region — and 
I  cannot  connect  with  the  past.  It  goes  against  me  to  be 
impolite,  but  I  am  not  asking  you  to  be  seated — you  are 
another  man's  wife — and  you  are  not  the  same  person  as  the 
one  from  whom  I  parted. 

Gerda.  Am  I  then  so — altered? 

Master.  Quite  strange  to  me!  Your  voice,  glance,  man- 
ner  

Gerda.  Have  I  grown  old? 

Master.  That  I  cannot  tell! — They  say  that  not  a  single 
atom  in  a  person's  body  remains  wholly  the  same  after  three 
years — and  in  five  years  everything  is  renewed.  And  for  that 
reason  you,  who  stand  over  there,  are  not  the  same  person 
as  the  sufferer  who  once  sat  here — you  seem  such  a  complete 
stranger  to  me  that  I  can  only  address  you  in  the  most  for- 
mal way.  And  I  suppose  it  would  be  just  the  same  in  the 
case  of  my  daughter,  too. 

Gerda.  Don't  speak  like  that.  I  would  much  rather  have 
you  angry. 

Master.  Why  should  I  be  angry? 
Gerda.  Because  of  all  the  evil  I  have  done  you. 
M  vster.  Have  you?     That's  more  than  I  know. 
Gerda.   Didn't  you  read  the  papers  in  the  suit? 
M  \ster.  No-o!     I  left  that  to  my  lawyer.     [He  sits  down. 
GEBDA.  And  the  decision  of  the  court? 
M  \stkh.  Xo,  why  should  I?     As  I  don't  mean  to  marry 
again,  I  have  no  use  for  that  kind  of  documents. 
I'ause.     Gerda  seats  herself. 


sceneii    THE    THUNDERSTORM         218 

Master.  What  did  those  papers  say?     That  I  was  too  old? 
Gerda's  silence  indicates  assent. 

Master.  Well,  that  was  nothing  but  the  truth,  so  thai 
need  not  trouble  you.  In  my  answer  I  said  the  very  same 
thing  and  asked  the  Court  to  set  you  free  again. 

Gerda.  You  said,  that ? 

Master.  I  said,  not  that  I  was,  but  that  I  was  about  to 
become  too  old  for  you! 

Gerda.  [Offended]  For  me? 

Master.  Yes. — I  couldn't  say  that  I  was  too  old  when  we 
married,  for  then  the  arrival  of  the  child  would  have  been 
unpleasantly  explained,  and  it  was  our  child,  was  it  not? 

Gerda.  You  know  that,  of  course!     But 

Master.  Do  you  think  I  should  be  ashamed  of  my  age? 
—Of  course,  if  I  took  to  dancing  and  playing  cards  at  night, 
then  I  might  soon  land  in  an  invalid's  chair,  or  on  the  oper- 
ating-table, and  that  would  be  a  shame. 

Gerda.  You  don't  look  it 

Master.  Did  you  expect  the  divorce  to  kill  me? 
The  silence  of  Gerda  is  ambiguous. 

Master.  There  are  those  who  assert  that  you  have  killed 
me.     Do  you  think  I  look  like  a  dead  man? 
Gerda  appears  embarrassed. 

Master.  Some  of  your  friends  are  said  to  have  caricatured 
me  in  the  papers,  but  I  have  never  seen  anything  of  it,  and 
those  papers  went  into  the  dump  five  years  ago.  So  there  is 
no  need  for  your  conscience  to  be  troubled  on  my  behalf. 

Gerda.  Why  did  you  marry  me? 

Master.  Don't  you  know  why  a  man  marries?  And  you 
know,  too,  that  I  didn't  have  to  go  begging  for  love.  And 
you  ought  to  remember  how  we  laughed  together  at  all  the 
wiseacres  who  felt  compelled  to  warn  you.— But  why  you 


i>U         THE     THUNDERSTORM    scene  n 

led  me  on  is  something  I  have  never  been  able  to  explain — 
When  you  didn't  look  at  me  after  the  marriage  ceremony,  but 
acted  as  if  you  had  been  attending  somebody  else's  wedding, 
then  I  thought  you  had  made  a  bet  that  you  could  kill  me. 
As  the  head  of  the  department,  I  was,  of  course,  hated  by  all 
my  subordinates,  but  they  became  your  friends  at  once.  No 
sooner  did  I  make  an  enemy  than  he  became  your  friend. 
Which  caused  me  to  remark  that,  while  it  was  right  for  you 
not  to  hate  your  enemies,  it  was  also  right  that  you  shouldn't 
love  mine! — However,  seeing  where  you  stood,  I  began  to 
prepare  for  a  retreat  at  once,  but  before  leaving  I  wanted  a 
living  proof  that  you  had  not  been  telling  the  truth,  and  so  I 
stayed  until  the  little  one  arrived. 

Gerda.  To  think  that  you  could  be  so  disingenuous! 

Master.  I  learned  to  keep  silent,  but  I  never  lied! — By 
degrees  you  turned  all  my  friends  into  detectives,  and  you 
lured  my  own  brother  into  betraying  me.  But  worst  of  all 
was  that  your  thoughtless  chatter  threw  suspicions  on  the 
legitimacy  of  the  child. 

Gerda.  All  that  I  took  back! 

Master.  The  word  that's  on  the  wing  cannot  be  pulled 
back  again.  And  worse  still :  those  false  rumours  reached  the 
child,  and  now  she  thinks  her  mother  a 

Gerda.  For  Heaven's  sake! 

Master.  Well,  that's  the  truth  of  it.  You  raised  a  tall 
tower  on  a  foundation  of  lies,  and  now  the  tower  of  lies  is 
tumbling  down  on  your  head. 

Gerda.  It  isn't  true! 

Master.  Yes,  it  is!  I  met  Anne-Charlotte  a  few  minutes 
ago 

Gerda.  You  have  met 


Master.  We  met  on  the  stairs,  and  she  said  I  was  her 
uncle.     Do  .vou  know  what  an  uncle  is?     That's  an  elderly 


scene ii    THE    THUNDERSTORM  *15 

friend  of  the  house  and  the  mother.  And  I  know  that  at 
school  I  am  also  passing  as  her  uncle. — But  all  that  is  dread- 
ful for  the  child! 

Gerda.  You  have  met 

Master.  Yes.  But  why  should  I  tell  anybody  about  it? 
Haven't  I  a  right  to  keep  silent?  And,  besides,  that  meeting 
was  so  shocking  to  me  that  I  wiped  it  out  of  my  memory 
as  if  it  had  never  existed. 

Gerda.  What  can  I  do  to  rehabilitate  you? 

Master.  You?  What  could  you  do?  That's  something 
I  can  only  do  myself.  [For  a  long  time  they  gaze  intently  at 
each  other]  And  for  that  matter,  I  have  already  got  my  re- 
habilitation. [Pause. 

Gerda.  Can't  I  make  good  in  some  way?  Can't  I  ask 
you  to  forgive,  to  forget 

Master.  What  do  you  mean? 

Gerda.  To  restore,  to  repair 


Master.  Do  you  mean  to  resume,  to  start  over  again,  to 
reinstate  a  master  above  me?     No,  thanks !     I  don't  want  you. 
Gerda.  And  this  I  had  to  hear! 

Master.  Well,  how  does  it  taste?  [Pause. 

Gerda.  That's  a  pretty  centrepiece. 
Master.  Yes,  it's  pretty. 

Gerda.  Where  did  you  get  it?  [Pause. 

Louise  appears  in  the  door  to   the  pantry  with  a  bill  in 
her  hand. 
Master.  [Turning  toward  her]  Is  it  a  bill? 

Gerda  rises  and  begins  to  pidl  on  her  gloves  with  such 
violence  that  buttons  are  scattered  right  and  left. 
Master.  [Taking   out   the   money]   Eigh teen-seventy-two. 
That's  just  right. 

Louise.  I  should  like  to  see  you  a  moment,  sir. 


216  THE    THUNDERSTORM    scene  ii 

.Master.  [Rises  and  goes  to  the  door,  where  Louise  whispers 

something  into  his  ear]  Oh,  mercy 

Louise  goes  out. 

Master.  I  am  sorry  for  you,  Gerda! 

Gerda.  What  do  you  mean?  That  I  am  jealous  of  your 
servant-girl? 

Master.  No,  I  didn't  mean  that. 

Gerda.  Yes,  you  meant  that  you  were  too  old  for  me,  but 
not  for  her.  I  catch  the  insulting  point —  She's  pretty — 
I  don't  deny  it — for  a  servant-girl 

Master.  I  am  sorry  for  you,  Gerda! 

Gerda.  Why  do  you  say  that? 

Master.  Because  you  are  to  be  pitied.  Jealous  of  my 
servant — that  ought  to  be  rehabilitation  enough. 

Gerda.  Jealous,  I 

Master.  Why  do  you  fly  in  a  rage  at  my  nice,  gentle 
kinswoman? 

Gerda.  "A  little  more  than  kin." 

Master.  No,  my  dear,  I  have  long  ago  resigned  myself — 
and  I  am  satisfied  with  my  solitude — -  [The  telephone  rings, and 
he  goes  to  answer  it]  Mr.  Fischer?  No,  that  isn't  here. — Oh, 
yes,  that's  me. — Has  he  skipped? — With  whom,  do  you  say? 
—with  Starck's  daughter!  Oh,  good  Lord!  How  old  is  she? 
— Eighteen!     A  mere  child!  [Rings  off. 

Gerda.  I  knew  he  had  run  away. — But  with  a  woman! — 
Now  you're  pleased. 

Master.  No,  I  am  not  pleased.  Although  there  is  a  sort 
<>f  solace  to  my  mind  in  finding  justice  exists  in  this  world. 
Life  is  very  quick  in  its  movements,  and  now  you  find  your- 
self where  I  was. 

Oerda.  Her  eighteen  years  against  my  twenty-nine —  I 
am  old— too  old  for  him! 


scene  ii    THE    THUNDERSTORM         2Vt 

Master.  Everything  is  relative,  even  age. — But  now  let 
us  get  at  something  else.     Where  is  your  child? 

Gerda.  My  child?  I  had  forgotten  it!  My  child!  My 
God !  Help  me !  He  has  taken  the  child  with  him.  He  loves 
Anne-Charlotte  as  his  own  daughter —  Come  with  me  to  the 
police — come! 

Master.  I?     Now  you  ask  too  much. 

Gerda.  Help  me! 

Master.  [Goes  to  the  door  at  the  right]  Come,  Carl  Frederick 
— get  a  cab — take  Gerda  down  to  the  police  station — won't 
you? 

Consul.  [Enters]  Of  course  I  will !  We  are  human,  are  we 
not? 

Master.  Quick!  But  say  nothing  to  Starck.  Matters 
may  be  straightened  out  yet —  Poor  fellow — and  I  am 
sorry  for  Gerda,  too! — Hurry  up  now! 

Gerda.  [Looking  out  through  the  window]  It's  beginning 
to  rain — lend  me  an  umbrella.  Eighteen  years — only  eight- 
een— quick,  now! 

She  goes  out  with  the  Consul. 

Master.  [Alone]  The  peace  of  old  age! — And  my  child 
in  the  hands  of  an  adventurer! — Louise! 
Louise  enters. 

Master.  Come  and  play  chess  with  me. 

Louise.  Has  the  consul 

Master.  He  has  gone  out  on  some  business.  Is  it  still 
raining? 

Louise.  No,  it  has  stopped  now. 

Master.  Then  I'll  go  out  and  cool  off  a  little.  [Pause]  You 
are  a  nice  girl,  and  sensible — did  you  know  the  confectioner's 
daughter? 

Louise.  Very  slightly. 

Master.  Is  she  pretty? 


218  THE  THUNDERSTORM    scene n 

Louise.  Ye-es. 

Master.  Have  you  known  the  people  above  us? 

Louise.  I  have  never  seen  them. 

Master.  That's  an  evasion. 

Louise.  I  have  learned  to  keep  silent  in  this  house. 

Master.  I  am  forced  to  admit  that  pretended  deafness  can 
be  carried  to  the  point  where  it  becomes  dangerous. — Well,  get 
the  tea  ready  while  I  go  outside  and  cool  off  a  little.  And, 
one  thing,  please — you  see  what  is  happening,  of  course — but 
don't  ask  me  any  questions. 

Louise.  I?    No,  sir,  I  am  not  at  all  curious. 

Master.  I  am  thankful  for  that! 

Curtain. 


THIRD    SCENE 

The  front  of  the  house  as  in  the  First  Scene.  There  is  light  in 
the  confectioner  s  place  in  the  basement.  The  gas  is  also 
lit  on  the  second  floor,  where  now  the  shades  are  raised  and 
the  windows  open. 

Starck  is  sitting  near  the  gateway. 

Master.  [Seated  on  the  green  bench]  That  was  a  nice  little 
shower  we  had. 

Starck.  Quite  a  blessing!  Now  the  raspberries  will  be 
coming  in  again 

Master.  Then  I'll  ask  you  to  put  aside  a  few  jars  for  us. 
We  have  grown  tired  of  making  the  jam  ourselves.  It  only 
gets  spoiled. 

Starck.  Yes,  I  know.  Jars  of  jam  are  like  mischievous 
children:  you  have  to  watch  them  all  the  time.  There  are 
people  who  put  in  salicylic  acid,  but  those  are  newfangled 
tricks  in  which  I  take  no  stock. 

Master.  Salicylic  acid — yes,  they  say  it's  antiseptic — and 
perhaps  it's  a  good  thing. 

Starck.  Yes,  but  you  can  taste  it — and  it's  a  trick. 

Master.  Tell  me,  Mr.  Starck,  have  you  got  a  telephone? 

Starck.  No,  I  have  no  telephone. 

Master.  Oh! 

Starck.  Why  do  you  ask? 

Master.  Oh,  I  happened  to  think— a  telephone  is  handy 

at  times — for  orders — and  important  communications 

219 


220         THE    THUNDERSTORM  scene m 

Starck.  That  may  be.  But  sometimes  it  is  just  as  well  to 
escape — communications. 

Master.  Quite  right!  Quite  right! — Yes,  my  heart  always 
beats  a  little  faster  when  I  hear  it  ring — one  never  knows 
what  one  is  going  to  hear — and  I  want  peace — peace,  above 
all  else. 

Starck.  So  do  I. 

Master.  [Looking  at  his  watch]  The  lamplighter  ought  to 
be  here  soon. 

Starck.  He  must  have  forgotten  us,  for  I  see  that  the 
lamps  are  already  lit  further  down  the  avenue. 

Master.  Then  he'll  be  here  soon.  It  will  be  a  lot  of  fun 
to  see  our  lamp  lighted  again. 

The  telephone  in  the  dining-room  rings.  Louise  comes 
in  to  answer  the  call.  The  Master  rises  and  puts 
one  hand  up  to  his  heart.  He  tries  to  listen,  but  the 
public  cannot  hear  anything  of  what  is  said  within. 
Pause.  After  a  while  Louise  comes  out  by  way  of 
the  square. 

Master.  [Anxiously]  What  news? 

Louise.  No  change. 

Master.  Was  that  my  brother? 

Louise.  No,  it  was  the  lady. 

Master.  What  did  she  want? 

Louise.  To  speak  to  you,  sir. 

Master.  I  don't  want  to! — Have  I  to  console  my  execu- 
tioner? I  used  to  do  it,  but  now  I  am  tired  of  it. — Look  up 
there!  They  have  forgotten  to  turn  out  the  light — and  light 
makes  empty  rooms  more  dreadful  than  darkness — the  ghosts 
become  visible.  [In  a  lowered  voice]  And  how  about  Starck's 
Agnes?     Do  you  think  he  knows  anything? 

LOUISE.  It's  hard  to  tell,  for  he  never  speaks  about  his 
sorrows — nor  does  anybody  else  in  the  Silent  House! 


scene  in  T  HE    T  H  U  N  D  E  H  S  T  0  K  M  22 1 

Master.  Do  you  think  he  should  be  told? 

Louise.  For  Heaven's  sake,  no ! 

Master.  But  I  fear  it  isn't  the  first  time  she  gave  him 
trouble. 

Louise.  He  never  speaks  of  her. 

Master.  It's  horrible!     I  wonder  if  we'll  get  to  the  cud  of 
it  soon?  [The  telephone  rings  again]  Now  it's  ringing  again. 
Don't  answer.     I  don't  want  to  hear  anything. — My  child  — 
in   such  company!     An   adventurer  and   a  strumpet! — It's 
beyond  limit! — Poor  Gerda! 

Louise.  It's  better  to  have  certainty.  I'll  go  in —  You 
must  do  something! 

Master.  I  cannot  move —  I  can  receive  blows,  but  to 
strike  back — no! 

Louise.  But  if  you  don't  repel  a  danger,  it  will  press  closer; 
and  if  you  don't  resist,  you'll  be  destroyed. 

Master.  But  if  you  refuse  to  be  drawn  in,  you  become 
unassailable. 

Louise.  Unassailable? 

Master,  Things  straighten  out  much  better  if  you  don't 
mess  them  up  still  further  by  interference.  How  can  you  want 
me  to  direct  matters  where  so  many  passions  are  at  play? 
Do  you  think  I  can  suppress  anybody's  emotions,  or  give  them 
a  new  turn? 

Louise.  But  how  about  the  child? 

Master.  I  have  surrendered  my  rights — and  besides — 
frankly  speaking — I  don't  care  for  them — not  at  all  now, 
when  she  has  been  here  and  spoiled  the  images  harboured  in 
my  memory.  She  has  wiped  out  all  the  beauty  that  I  had 
cherished,  and  now  there  is  nothing  left. 

Louise.  But  that's  to  be  set  free! 

Master.  Look,  how  empty  the  place  seems  in  there — as 


THE    THUNDERS  T  O  R  M   scene  hi 

if  everybody  had  moved  out;  and  up  there — as  if  there  had 
been  a  fire. 

Louise.  Who  is  coming  there? 

Agnes  enters,  excited  and  frightened,  but  trying  hard  to 
control  herself;  she  makes  for  the  gateway,  where  the 
confectioner  is  seated  on  his  chair. 

Louise  [To  the  Master]  There  is  Agnes?     What  can  this 
mean? 

Master.  Agnes?    Then   things  are  getting  straightened 
out. 

Starck.  [With  perfect  calm]  Good  evening,  girl!     Where 
have  you  been? 

Agnes.  I  have  been  for  a  walk. 

Starck.  Your  mother  has  asked  for  you  several  times. 

Agnes.  Is  that  so?     Well,  here  I  am. 

Starck.  Please  go  down  and  help  her  start  a  fire  under  the 
little  oven. 

Agnes.  Is  she  angry  with  me,  then? 

Starck.  You  know  that  she  cannot  be  angry  with  you. 

Agnes.  Oh,  yes,  but  she  doesn't  say  anything. 

Starck.  Well,  girl,  isn't  it  better  to  escape  being  scolded? 
Agnes  disappears  into  the  gateway. 

Master.  [To  Louise]  Does  he  know,  or  doesn't  he? 

Louise.  Let's  hope  that  he  will  remain  in  ignorance. 

Master.  But  what  can  have  happened?     A  breach?  [To 
Starck]  Say,  Mr.  Starck 

Starck.  What  is  it? 

Master.  I  thought —      Did  you  notice  if  anybody  left  the 
house  a  while  ago? 

Starck.  I  saw  the  iceman,  and  also  a  mail-carrier,  I  think. 

Master.  Oh!  [To  Louise]  Perhaps  it  was  a  mistake — that 
we  didn't  hear  right — I  can't  explain  it —      Or  maybe  he  is 


scene  m  THE    THUNDERSTORM  223 

not  telling  the  truth?     What  did  she  say  when  she  tele- 
phoned? 

Louise.  That  she  wanted  to  speak  to  you. 

Master.  How  did  it  sound?     Was  she  excited? 

Louise.  Yes. 

Master.  I  think  it's  rather  shameless  of  her  to  appeal  to 
me  in  a  matter  like  this. 

Louise.  But  the  child ! 

Master.  Just  think,  I  met  my  daughter  on  the  stairway, 
and  when  I  asked  her  if  she  recognised  me  she  called  me 
uncle  and  told  me  that  her  father  was  up-stairs.  Of  course, 
he  is  her  stepfather,  and  has  all  the  rights —  They  have 
just  spent  their  time  exterminating  me,  blackguarding  me 

Louise.  A  cab  is  stopping  at  the  corner. 
Starck  withdraws  into  the  gateway. 

Master.  I  only  hope  they  don't  come  back  to  burden 
me  again!  Just  think:  to  have  to  hear  my  child  singing 
the  praise  of  her  father — the  other  one!  And  then  to 
begin  the  old  story  all  over  again:  "Why  did  you  marry 
me?" — "Oh,  you  know;  but  what  made  you  want  me?" — 
"You  know  very  well!" — And  so  on,  until  the  end  of  the 
world. 

Louise.  It  was  the  consul  that  came. 

Master.  How  does  he  look? 

Louise.  He  is  taking  his  time. 

Master.  Practising  what  he  is  to  say,  I  suppose.  Does 
he  look  satisfied? 

Louise.  Thoughtful,  rather 

Master.  Hm! — That's  the  way  it  always  was.  Whenever 
he  saw  that  woman  he  became  disloyal  to  me.  She  had  the 
power  of  charming  everybody  but  me.  To  me  she  seemed 
coarse,  vulgar,  ugly,  stupid;  to  all  the  rest  she  seemed  refined, 
pleasant,  handsome,  intelligent.     All  the  hatred  aroused  by 


224         THE    THUNDERSTORM   scene m 

my  independence  centred  in  her  under  the  form  of  a  bound- 
less sympathy  for  whoever  wronged  me  in  any  way.  Through 
her  they  strove  to  control  and  influence  me,  to  wound  me, 
and,  at  last,  to  kill  me. 

Louise.  Now,  I'll  go  in  and  watch  the  telephone —  I  sup- 
pose this  storm  will  pass  like  all  others. 

Master.  Men  cannot  bear  independence.  They  want  you 
to  obey  them.  Every  one  of  my  subordinates  in  the  de- 
partment, down  to  the  very  messengers,  wanted  me  to  obey 
him.  And  when  I  wouldn't  they  called  me  a  despot.  The 
servants  in  our  house  wanted  me  to  obey  them  and  eat  food 
that  had  been  warmed  up.  When  I  wouldn't,  they  set  my 
wife  against  me.  And  finally  my  wife  wanted  me  to  obey 
the  child,  but  then  I  left,  and  then  all  of  them  combined 
against  the  tyrant — which  was  I! — Get  in  there  quick  now, 
Louise,  so  we  can  set  off  our  mines  out  here. 
The  Consul  enters  from  the  left. 

Master.  Results — not  details — please! 

Consul.  Let's  sit  down.     I  am  a  little  tired. 

Master.  I  think  it  has  rained  on  the  bench. 

Consul.  It  can't  be  too  wet  for  me  if  you  have  been  sitting 
on  it. 

Master.  As  you  like! — Where  is  my  child? 

Consul.  Can  I  begin  at  the  beginning? 

Master.  Begin! 

Consul  [Speaking  slowly]  I  got  to  the  depot  with  Gerda — 
and  at  the  ticket-office  I  discovered  him  and  Agnes 

Master.  So  Agnes  was  with  him? 

Consul.  And  so  was  the  child ! — Gerda  stayed  outside,  and 
I  went  up  to  them.  At  that  moment  he  was  handing  Agnes 
tli<-  tickets,  but  when  she  discovered  that  they  were  for  third 
class  she  threw  them  in  his  face  and  walked  out  to  the  cab- 
stand. 


scene  in  THE    THUNDERSTORM  225 

Master.  Ugh! 

Consul.  As  soon  as  I  had  established  a  eonnection  with 
the  man,  Gerda  hurried  up  and  got  hold  of  the  child,  disap- 
pearing with  it  in  the  crowd 

Master.  What  did  the  man  have  to  say? 

Consul.  Oh,  you  know — when  you  come  to  hear  the  other 
side — and  so  on. 

Master.  I  want  to  hear  it.  Of  course,  he  isn't  as  bad  as 
we  thought — he  has  his  good  sides 

Consul.  Exactly! 

Master.  I  thought  so!  But  you  don't  want  me  to  sit 
here  listening  to  eulogies  of  my  enemy? 

Consul.  Oh,  not  eulogies,  but  ameliorating  circum- 
stances  

Master.  Did  you  ever  want  to  listen  to  me  when  I 
tried  to  explain  the  true  state  of  affairs  to  you?  Yes,  you 
did  listen — but  your  reply  was  a  disapproving  silence,  as  if 
I  had  been  lying  to  you.  You  have  always  sided  with  what 
was  wrong,  and  you  have  believed  nothing  but  lies,  and  the 
reason  was — that  you  were  in  love  with  Gerda!  But  there 
was  also  another  reason 

Consul.  Brother,  don't  say  anything  more!  You  see 
nothing  but  your  own  side  of  things. 

Master.  How  can  you  expect  me  to  view  my  conditions 
from  the  standpoint  of  my  enemy?  I  cannot  take  sides 
against  myself,  can  I? 

Consul.  I  am  not  your  enemy. 

Master.  Yes,  when  you  make  friends  with  one  who  has 
wronged  me! — Where  is  my  child? 

Consul.  I  don't  know. 

Master.  What  was  the  outcome  at  the  depot? 

Consul.  He  took  a  south-bound  train  alone. 

Master.  And  the  others? 


226  THE    THUNDERSTORM  scene m 

Consul.  Disappeared. 

Master.  Then  I  may  have  them  after  me  again.  [Pause] 
Ditl  you  see  if  they  went  with  him? 

Consul.  He  went  alone. 

Master.  Well,  then  we  are  done  with  that  one,  at  least. 
Number  two — there  remain  now — the  mother  and  the  child. 

Consul.  Why  is  the  light  burning  up  there  in  their  rooms? 

Master.  Because  they  forgot  to  turn  it  out. 

Consul.  I'll  go  up 

Master.  No,  don't  go! — I  only  hope  that  they  don't  come 
back  here! — To  repeat,  always  repeat,  begin  the  same  lesson 
all  over  again ! 

Consul.  But  it  has  begun  to  straighten  out. 

Master.  Yet  the  worst  remains —  Do  you  think  they 
will  come  back? 

Consul.  Not  she — not  since  she  had  to  make  you  amends 
in  the  presence  of  Louise. 

Master.  I  had  forgotten  that!  She  really  did  me  the 
honour  of  becoming  jealous!  I  do  think  there  is  justice  in 
this  world! 

Consul.  And  then  she  learned  that  Agnes  was  younger 
than  herself. 

Master.  Poor  Gerda!  But  in  a  case  like  this  you  mustn't 
tell  people  that  justice  exists — an  avenging  justice — for  it 
is  sheer  falsehood  that  they  love  justice!  And  you  must  deal 
gently  with  their  filth.  And  Nemesis — exists  only  for  the 
other  person. — There  it's  ringing  again?  That  telephone 
makes  a  noise  like  a  rattlesnake! 

Louise  becomes  visible  at  the  telephone  inside.  Pause. 

Master.  [To  Louise]  Did  the  snake  bite? 

Louise.  [At  the  window]  May  I  speak  to  you,  sir? 

Master.  [Going  up  to  the  window]  Speak  out! 


scexe  in   rP  IT  E    T  II  U  N  D  E  R  S  T  ()  R  M  22 


Louise.  The  lady  has  gone  to  her  mother,  in  the  country, 
to  live  there  with  her  littl<>  girl. 

Master.  [To  his  brother]  Mother  and  child  in  the  country 
— in  a  good  home!     Now  it's  straightened  out! — Oh! 
Louise.  And  she  asked  us  to  turn  out  the  light  up-stairs. 
Master.  Do   that  at  once,   Louise,   and   pull   down   the 
shades  so  we  don't  have  to  look  at  it  any  longer. 
Louise  leaves  the  dining-room. 
Starck.  [Coming  out  on  the  sidewalk  again  and  looking  up] 
I  think  the  storm  has  passed  over. 

Master.  It  seems  really  to  have  cleared  up,  and  that 
means  we'll  have  moonlight. 

Consul.  That  was  a  blessed  rain ! 
Starck.  Perfectly  splendid! 

Master.  Look,  there's  the  lamplighter  coming  at  last! 
The  Lamplighter  enters,  lights  the  street  lamp  beside 
the  bench,  and  passes  on. 
Master.  The  first  lamp!     Now  the  fall  is  here!     That's 
our  season,  old  chaps!     It's  getting  dark,  but  then  comes 
reason  to  light  us  with  its  bull's-eyes,  so  that  we  don't  go 
astray. 

Louise  becomes  visible  at  one  of  the  windows  on  the 

second  floor;  immediately  afterward  everything  is  dark 

up  there. 

Master.  [To  Louise]  Close  the  windows  and  pull  down 

the  shades  so  that  all  memories  can  lie  down  and  sleep  in 

peace!     The  peace  of  old  age!     And  vhis  fall  I  move  away 

from  the  Silent  House. 

Curtain. 


AFTER    THE    FIRE 

(BRANDA    TOMTEN) 

A    CHAMBER    PLAY 
1907 


CHARACTERS 

Rudolph  Walstrom,  a  dyer 

The  Stranger,  icho  is  t 

brother  of  Rudolph 


Arvid  Walstrom 

Anderson,  a  mason  {brother-in-law  of  the  gardener) 

Mrs.  Anderson,  wife  of  tJie  mason 

Gustafson,  a  gardener  (brother-in-law  of  the  mason) 

Alfred,  son  of  the  gardener 

Albert  Ericson,  a  stone-cutter  (second  cousin  of  the  hearse- 
driver) 

Mathilda,  daughter  of  the  stone-cutter 

The  Hearse-Driver  (second  cousin  of  the  stone-cutter) 

A  Detective 

Sjoblom,  a  painter 

Mrs.  Westerlund,  hostess  at  "  The  Last  Nail,"  formerly  a 
nurse  at  the  dyer's 

Mrs.  Walstrom,  wife  of  the  dyer 

The  Student 

The  Witness 


AFTER    THE    FIRE 

FIRST     SCENE 

The  left  half  of  the  background  is  occupied  by  the  empty  shell 
of  a  gutted  one-story  brick  house.  In  places  the  paper  re- 
mains on  the  walls,  and  a  couple  of  brick  stoves  are  still 
standing. 

Beyond  the  ivalls  can  be  seen  an  orchard  in  bloom. 

At  the  right  is  the  front  of  a  small  inn,  the  sign  of  which  is 
a  wreath  hanging  from  a  pole.  Tables  and  benches  are 
placed  outside. 

At  the  left,  in  the  foreground,  there  is  a  pile  of  furniture  and 
household  utensils  that  have  been  saved  from  the  fire. 

Sjoblom,  the  painter,  is  painting  the  window-frames  of  the  inn. 
He  listens  closely  to  everything  that  is  said. 

Anderson,  the  mason,  is  digging  in  the  ruins. 

The  Detective  enters. 

Detective.  Is  the  fire  entirely  out? 

Anderson.  There  isn't  any  smoke,  at  least. 

Detective.  Then  I  want  to  ask  a  few  more  questions. 
[Pause]  You  were  born  in  this  quarter,  were  you  not? 

Anderson.  Oh,  yes.  It's  seventy-five  years  now  I've  lived 
on  this  street.  I  wasn't  born  when  they  built  this  house 
here,  but  my  father  helped  to  put  in  the  brick. 

Detective.  Then  you  know  everybody  around  here? 

Anderson.  We  all  know  each  other.     There  is  something 

231 


232  AFTER    THE    FIRE  scene  i 

particular  about  this  street  here.  Those  that  get  in  here 
once,  never  get  away  from  it.  That  is,  they  move  away, 
but  they  always  come  back  again  sooner  or  later,  until  at  last 
they  are  carried  out  to  the  cemetery,  which  is  'way  out  there 
at  the  end  of  the  street. 

Detective.  You  have  got  a  special  name  for  this  quarter, 
haven't  you? 

Anderson.  We  call  it  the  Bog.  And  all  of  us  hate  each 
other,  and  suspect  each  other,  and  blackguard  each  other, 
and  torment  each  other [Pause. 

Detective.  The  fire  started  at  half  past  ten  in  the  evening, 
I  hear — was  the  front  door  locked  at  that  time? 

Anderson.  Well,  that's  more  than  I  know,  for  I  live  in  the 
house  next  to  this. 

Detective.  Where  did  the  fire  start? 

Anderson.  Up  in  the  attic,  where  the  student  was  living. 

Detective.  Was  he  at  home? 

Anderson.  No,  he  was  at  the  theatre. 

Detective.  Had  he  gone  away  and  left  the  lamp  burning, 
then? 

Anderson.  Well,  that's  more  than  I  know.  [Pause. 

Detective.  Is  the  student  any  relation  to  the  owner  of 
the  house? 

Anderson.  No,  I  don't  think  so. — Say,  you  haven't  got 
anything  to  do  with  the  police,  have  you? 

Detective.  How  did  it  happen  that  the  inn  didn't  catch 
fire? 

Anderson.  They  slung  a  tarpaulin  over  it  and  turned  on 
the  hose. 

Detective.  Queer  that  the  apple-trees  were  not  destroyed 
by  the  heat. 

Anderson.  They  had  just  budded,  and  it  had  been  raining 
'luring  the  day,  but  the  heat  made  the  buds  go  into  bloom 


scene  i  AFTER    THE     FIRE  ! :.;  3 

in  the  middle  of  the  night— a  little  too  early,  I  guess,  for 
there  is  frost  coming,  and  then  the  gardener  will  catch  it. 

Detective.  "What  kind  of  fellow  is  the  gardener? 

Anderson.  His  name  is  Gustafson 

Detective.  Yes,  but  what  sort  of  a  man  is  he? 

Anderson.  See  here:  I  am  seventy-five — and  for  that  rea- 
son I  don't  know  anything  bad  about  Gustafson;  and  if  I 
knew  I  wouldn't  be  telling  it!  [Pause. 

Detective.  And  the  owner  of  the  house  is  named  Wal- 
strom,  a  dyer,  about  sixty  years  old,  married 

Anderson.  Why  don't  you  go  on  yourself?  You  can't 
pump  me  any  longer. 

Detective.  Is  it  thought  that  the  fire  was  started  on 
purpose? 

Anderson.  That's  what  people  think  of  all  fires. 

Detective.  And  whom  do  they  suspect? 

Anderson.  The  insurance  company  always  suspects  any- 
body who  has  an  interest  in  the  fire — and  for  that  reason  I 
have  never  had  anything  insured. 

Detective.  Did  you  find  anything  while  you  were  digging? 

Anderson.  Mostly  one  finds  all  the  door-keys,  because 
people  haven't  got  time  to  take  them  along  when  the  house 
is  on  fire — except  now  and  then,  of  course,  when  they  have 
been  taken  away 

Detective.  There  was  no  electric  light  in  the  house? 

Anderson.  Not  in  an  old  house  like  this,  and  that's  a  good 
thing,  for  then  they  can't  put  the  blame  on  crossed  wires. 

Detective.  Put  the  blame? — A  good  thing? — Listen 

Anderson.  Oh,  you're  going  to  get  me  in  a  trap?  Don't 
you  do  it,  for  then  I  take  it  all  back. 

Detective.  Take  back?     You  can't! 

Anderson.  Can't  I? 

Detective.  No! 


234  AFTER    THE    FIRE  scene  i 

Anderson.  Yes!    For  there  was  no  witness  present. 
Detective.  No? 
Anderson.  Naw! 

The  Detective  coughs.     The  Witness  comes  in  from 

the  left. 

Detective.  Here's  one  witness. 

Anderson.  You're  a  sly  one! 

Detective.  Oh,  there  are  people  who  know  how  to  use 
their  brains  without  being  seventy-five.  [To  the  Witness] 
Now  we'll  continue  with  the  gardener. 

[They  go  out  to  the  left. 

Anderson.  There  I  put  my  foot  in  it,  I  guess.  But  that's 
what  happens  when  you  get  to  talking. 

Mrs.  Anderson  enters  with  her  husband's  lunch  in  a 
bundle. 

Anderson.  It's  good  you  came. 

Mrs.  Anderson.  Now  we'll  have  lunch  and  be  good — you 
might  well  be  hungry  after  all  this  fuss — I  wonder  if  Gustafson 
can  pull  through — he'd  just  got  done  with  his  hotbeds  and 
was  about  to  start  digging  in  the  open — why  don't  you  eat? — 
and  there's  Sjoblom  already  at  work  with  his  putty— just 
think  of  it,  that  Mrs.  Westerlund  got  off  as  well  as  she  did — 
morning,  Sjoblom,  now  you've  got  work,  haven't  you? 
Mrs.  Westerlund  comes  in. 

Mrs.  Anderson.  Morning,  morning,  Mrs.  Westerlund — 
you  got  out  of  this  fine,  I  must  say,  and  then 

Mrs.  Westerlund.  I  wonder  who's  going  to  pay  me  for 
all  I  am  losing  to-day,  when  there's  a  big  funeral  on  at  the 
cemetery,  which  always  makes  it  a  good  day  for  me,  and  just 
when  I've  had  to  put  away  all  my  bottles  and  glassware 

Mrs.  Anderson.  Who's  that  they're  burying  to-day?  I 
see  such  a  lot  of  people  going  out  that  way — and  then,  of 
course,  they've  come  to  see  where  the  fire  was,  too. 


scene  i  AFTER    THE     FIRE  185 

Mrs.  Westeklund.  I  don't  think  they're  burying  any- 
body, but  I've  heard  they're  going  to  put  up  a  monument 
over  the  bishop — worst  of  it  is  that  the  stone-eutter's  daugh- 
ter was  going  to  get  married  to  the  gardener's  son — him,  you 
know,  who's  in  a  store  down-town — and  now  the  gardener 
has  lost  all  he  had — isn't  that  his  furniture  standing  over 
there? 

Mrs.  Anderson.  I  guess  that's  some  of  the  dyer's,  too, 
seeing  as  it  came  out  helter-skelter  in  a  jiffy — and  where's 
the  dyer  now? 

Mrs.  Westerlund.  He's  down  at  the  police  station  testi- 
fying. 

Mrs.  Anderson.  Hm-hm! — Yes,  yes! — And  there's  my 
cousin  now — him  what  drives  the  hearse — he's  always  thirsty 
on  his  way  back. 

Hearse-Driver.  [Enters]  How  do,  Malvina!  So  you've 
gone  and  started  a  little  job  of  arson  out  here  during  the 
night,  have  you?  Looks  pretty,  doesn't  it.  Would  have 
been  better  to  get  a  new  shanty  instead,  I  guess. 

Mrs.  Westerlund.  Oh,  mercy  me!  But  whom  have  you 
been  taking  out  now? 

Hearse-Driver.  Can't  remember  what  his  name  was — 
only  one  carriage  along,  and  no  flowers  on  the  coffin  at  all. 

Mrs.  Westerlund.  Sure  and  it  wasn't  any  happy  funeral, 
then!  If  you  want  anything  to  drink  you'll  have  to  go  'round 
to  the  kitchen,  for  I  haven't  got  things  going  on  this  side  yet, 
and,  for  that  matter,  Gustafson  is  coming  here  with  a  lot  of 
wreaths — they've  got  something  on  out  at  the  cemetery 
to-day. 

Hearse-Driver.  Yes,  they're  going  to  put  up  a  moniment 
to  the  bishop — 'cause  he  wrote  books,  I  guess,  and  collected 
all  kinds  of  vermin — was  a  reg'lar  vermin-hunter,  they  tell  me. 

Mrs.  Westerlund.  What's  that? 


236  AFTER    THE    FIRE  scene] 

Hearse-Driver.  Oh,  be  had  slabs  of  cork  with   pins  on 

'em,  and  a  lot  of  flies— something  beyond  us  here — but  I 

guess  t  hat's  the  proper  way— can  I  go  out  to  the  kitchen  now? 

Mks.  Westerlund.  Yes,  if  you  use  the  back  door,  I  think 

you  can  get  something  wet 

Hi:  vrse-Driver.  But  I  want  to  have  a  word  with  the  dyer 
before  I  drive  off — I've  got  my  horses  over  at  the  stone- 
cutter's, who's  my  second  cousin,  you  know.  Haven't  got 
any  use  for  him,  as  you  know,  too,  but  we're  doing  business 
together,  he  and  I— that  is,  I  put  in  a  word  for  him  with  the 
heirs,  and  so  he  lets  me  put  my  horses  into  his  yard — just  let 
me  know  when  the  dyer  shows  up — luck,  wasn't  it,  that  he 

didn't  have  his  works  here,  too 

[He  goes  out,  passing  around  the  inn. 
Mrs.  Westerlund  goes  into  the  inn  by  the  front  door. 
Anderson,  who  has  finished  eating,  begins  to  dig  again. 
Mrs.  Anderson.  Do  you  find  anything? 
Anderson.  Nails  and  door-hinges— all  the  keys  are  hang- 
ing in  a  bunch  over  there  by  the  front  door. 

Mrs.  Anderson.  Did  they  hang  there  before,  or  did  you 
put  them  there? 

Anderson.  No,  they  were  hanging  there  when  I  got  here. 
Mrs.  Anderson.  That's  queer — for  then  somebody  must 
have  locked  all  the  doors  and  taken  out  the  keys  before  it 
began  burning!     That's  queer! 

Anderson.  Yes,  of  course,  it's  a  little  queer,  for  in  that 
way  it  was  harder  to  get  at  the  fire  and  save  things.  Yes — 
yes!  [Pause. 

Mrs.  Anderson.  I  worked  for  the  dyer's  father  forty 
years  ago,  I  did,  and  I  know  the  people,  both  the  dyer  him- 
self ami  his  brother  what  went  off  to  America,  though  they 
say  Ik's  hack  now.  The  father,  he  was  a  real  man,  he  was, 
hut  the  boys  were  always  a  little  so-so.     Mrs.  Westerlund 


scene  i  AFTER    THE    FIRE  237 

over  here,  she  used  to  take  care  of  Rudolph,  and  the  two 
brothers  never  could  get  along,  but  kept  scrapping  and  fight- 
ing all  the  time. — I've  seen  a  thing  or  two,  I  have — yes, 
there's  a  whole  lot  what  has  happened  in  that  house,  so  I  guess 
it  was  about  time  to  get  it  smoked  out. — Ugh,  but  that  was  a 
house!  One  went  this  way  and  another  that,  but  back  they 
had  to  come,  and  here  they  died  and  here  they  were  born, 
and  here  they  married  and  were  divorced. — And  Arvid,  the 
brother  what  went  off  to  America — him  they  thought  dead  for 
years,  and  at  least  he  didn't  take  what  was  coming  to  him  after 
his  father,  but  now  they  say  he's  come  back,  though  nobody 
has  seen  him — and  there's  such  a  lot  of  talking —  Look, 
there's  the  dyer  back  from  the  police  station! 

Anderson.  He  doesn't  look  happy  exactly,  but  I  suppose 
that's  more  than  can  be  expected —  Well,  who's  that  student 
that  lived  in  the  attic?  How  does  he  hang  together  with  the 
rest? 

Mrs.  Anderson.  Well,  that's  more  than  I  know.  He  had 
his  board  there,  and  read  with  the  children. 

Anderson.  And  also  with  the  lady  of  the  house? 

Mrs.  Anderson.  No-o,  they  played  something  what  they 
called  tennis,  and  quarrelled  the  rest  of  the  time— yes,  quar- 
relling and  backbiting,  that's  what  everybody  is  up  to  in  this 
quarter. 

Anderson.  Well,  when  they  broke  the  student's  door  open 
they  found  hairpins  on  the  floor — it  had  to  come  out,  after  all, 
even  if  the  fire  had  to  sweep  over  it  first 

Mrs.  Anderson.  I  don't  think  it  was  the  dyer  that  came, 
but  our  brother-in-law,  Gustafson 

Anderson.  He's  always  mad,  and  to-day  I  suppose  he's 
worse  than  ever,  and  so  he'll  have  to  come  and  dun  me  for 
what  I  owe  him,  seeing  what  he  has  lost  in  the  fire 

Mrs.  Anderson.  Now  you  shut  up! 


238  AFTER    THE    FIRE  scene i 

Gustafson.  [Enters  with  a  basketful  of  funeral  wreaths  and 
other  products  of  his  trade]  I  wonder  if  I  am  going  to  sell  any- 
thing to-day  so  there'll  be  enough  for  food  after  all  this 
rumpus? 

Anderson.  Didn't  you  carry  any  insurance? 

Gustafson.  Yes,  I  used  to  have  insurance  on  the  glass 
panes  over  my  hotbeds,  but  this  year  I  felt  stingy,  and  so  I 
put  in  oiled  paper  instead — gosh,  that  I  could  be  such  a  darned 
fool  [—[Scratching  his  head]  I  don't  get  paid  for  that,  of  course. 
And  now  I've  got  to  cut  and  paste  and  oil  six  hundred  paper 
panes.  It's  as  I  have  always  said:  that  I  was  the  worst  idiot 
among  us  seven  children.  Gee,  what  an  ass  I  was — what  a 
booby!  And  then  I  went  and  got  drunk  yesterday.  Why 
in  hell  did  I  have  to  get  drunk  that  day  of  all  days — when  I 
need  all  the  brains  I've  got  to-day?  It  was  the  stone-cutter 
who  treated,  because  our  children  are  going  to  get  married 
to-night,  but  I  should  have  said  no.  I  didn't  want  to,  but 
I'm  a  ninny  who  can't  say  no  to  anybody.  And  that's  the 
way  whin  they  come  and  borrow  money  of  me — I  can't  say 
no — darned  fool  that  I  am!  And  then  I  got  in  the  way  of 
that  policeman,  who  snared  me  with  all  sorts  of  questions.  I 
should  have  kept  my  mouth  shut,  like  the  painter  over  there, 
but  I  can't,  and  so  I  let  out  this,  that,  and  the  other  thing, 
and  he  put  it  all  down,  and  now  I  am  called  as  a  witness! 

Anderson.  What  was  it  you  said? 

Gustafson.  I  said  I  thought — that  it  looked  funny  to  me 
— and  that  somebody  must  have  started  it. 

Anderson.  Oh,  that's  what  you  said! 

Gustafson.  Yes,  pitch  into  me — I've  deserved  it,  goose 
that  I  am! 

ANDERSON.  And  who  could  have  started  it,  do  you  think? 
— Don't  mind  the  painter,  and  my  old  woman  here  never 
carries  any  tales. 


SCENE  I 


AFTER    THE     FIRE  289 


Gustafson.  Who  started  it?    Why,  the  student,  of  course, 

as  it  started  in  his  room. 

Anderson.  No — under  his  room! 

Gustafson.  Under,  you  say?  Then  I  have  gone  and  done 
it! — Oh,  I'll  come  to  a  bad  end,  I'm  sure! — Under  his  room, 
you  say — what  could  have  been  there — the  kitchen? 

Anderson.  No,  a  closet — see,  over  there!  It  was  used  by 
the  cook. 

Gustafson.  Then  it  must  have  been  her. 

Anderson.  Yes,  but  don't  you  say  so,  as  you  don't  know. 

Gustafson.  The  stone-cutter  had  it  in  for  the  cook  last 
night — I  guess  he  must  have  known  a  whole  lot 

Anderson.  You  shouldn't  repeat  what  the  stone-cutter 
says,  for  one  who  has  served  isn't  to  be  trusted 

Gustafson.  Ash,  that's  so  long  ago,  and  the  cook's  a  regu- 
lar dragon,  for  that  matter— she'd  always  haggle  over  the 
vegetables 

Anderson.  There  comes  the  dyer  from  the  station  now— 
you'd  better  quit! 

The  Stranger  enters,  dressed  in  a  frock  coat  and  a  high 
hat  with  mourning  on  it;  he  carries  a  stick. 

Mrs.  Anderson.  It  wasn't  the  dyer,  but  he  looks  a  lot  like 
him. 

Stranger.  How  much  is  one  of  those  wreaths? 

Gardener.  Fifty  cents. 

Stranger.  Oh,  that's  not  much. 

Gardener.  No,  I  am  such  a  fool  that  I  can't  charge  as  I 
should. 

Stranger.  [Looking  around]  Has  there— been  a  fire- 
here? 

Gardener.  Yes,  last  night. 

Stranger.  Good  God!  [Pause]  Who  was  the  owner  of  the 

house? 


240  AFTER    THE    FIRE  scene i 

Gardener.  Mr.  Walstrom. 

Stranger.  The  dyer? 

Gardener.  Yes,  he  used  to  be  a  dyer,  all  right.        [Pause. 

Stranger.  Where  is  he  now? 

Gardener.  He'll  be  here  any  moment. 

Stranger.  Then  I'll  look  around  a  bit — the  wreath  can  lie 
here  till  I  come  back — I  meant  to  go  out  to  the  cemetery  later. 

Gardener.  On  account  of  the  bishop's  monument,  I  sup- 
pose? 

Stranger.  What  bishop? 

Gardener.  Bishop  Stecksen,  don't  you  know — who  be- 
longed to  the  Academy. 

Stranger.  Is  he  dead? 

Gardener.  Oh,  long  ago! 

Stranger.  I  see! — Well,  I'll  leave  the  wreath  for  a  while. 
He  goes  out  to  the  left,  studying  iiie  ruins  carefully  as  he 
passes  by. 

Mrs.  Anderson.  Perhaps  he  came  on  account  of  the  in- 
surance. 

Anderson.  Not  that  one!  Then  he  would  have  asked  in  a 
different  way. 

Mrs.  Anderson.  But  he  looked  like  the  dyer  just  the 
same. 

Anderson.  Only  he  was  taller. 

Gustafson.  Now,  I  remember  something — I  should  have  a 
bridal  bouquet  ready  for  to-night,  and  I  should  go  to  my  son's 
wedding,  but  I  have  no  flowers,  and  my  black  coat  has  been 
burned.  Wouldn't  that  make  you —  Mrs.  Westerlund  was  to 
furnish  the  myrtle  for  the  bride's  crown,  being  her  godmother 
—that's  the  myrtle  she  stole  a  shoot  of  from  the  dyer's  cook, 
who  got  hers  from  the  dyer's  first  wife — she  who  ran  away — 
ami  I  was  to  make  a  crown  of  it,  and  I've  clean  forgotten  it — 
well,  if  I  ain't  the  worst  fool  that  ever  walked  the  earth!  [He 


scene i  AFTER    THE    FIRE  241 

opens  the  inn  door]  Mrs.  Westerlund,  can  I  have  the  myrtle 
now,  and  I'll  do  the  job!— I  say,  can  I  have  thai  myrtle! 
Wreath,  too,  you  say— have  you  got  enough  for  it?— No? 
Well,  then  I'll  let  the  whole  wedding  go  hang,  that's  all  there 
is  to  it! — Let  them  walk  up  to  the  minister's  and  have  him 
splice  them  together,  but  it'll  make  the  stone-cutter  mad  as  a 
hornet. — What  do  you  think  I  should  do?— Xo,  I  can't — 
haven't  slept  a  wink  the  whole  night. — It's  too  much  for  a 
poor  human  creature. — Yes,  I  am  a  ninny,  I  know — go  for 
me,  will  you! — Oh,  there's  the  pot — thanks!  And  then  I 
need  scissors,  which  I  haven't  got — and  wire — and  string — 
where  am  I  to  get  them  from? — No,  of  course,  nobody  wants 
to  break  off  his  work  for  a  thing  like  that. — I'm  tired  of  the 
whole  mess — work  fifty  years,  and  then  have  it  go  up  in 
smoke!  I  haven't  got  strength  to  begin  over  again — and 
the  way  it  comes  all  at  once,  blow  on  blow — did  you  ever! 
I'm  going  to  run  away  from  it!  [lie  goes  out. 

Rudolph  Walstrom.  [Enters,  evidently  upset,  badly  dressed, 
his  hands  discoloured  by  the  dyes]  Is  it  all  out  now,  Anderson? 

Anderson.  Yes,  now  it's  out. 

Rudolph.  Has  anything  been  discovered? 

Anderson.  That's  a  question!    What's  buried  when   it 
snows  comes  to  light  when  it  thaws! 

Rudolph.  What  do  you  mean,  Anderson? 

Anderson.  If  you  dig  deep  enough  you  find  things. 

Rudolph.  Have   you   found   anything   that   can   explain 
how  the  fire  started? 

Anderson.  Naw,  nothing  of  that  kind. 

Rudolph.  That  means  we  are  still  under  suspicion,  all  of  us. 

Anderson.  Not  me,  I  guess. 

Rudolph.  Oh,  yes,  for  you  have  been  seen  up  in  the  attic 
at  unusual  hours. 

Anderson.  Well,  I  can't  always  go  at  usual  hours  to  l<><>k 


242  AFTER    THE    FIRE  scene i 

for  my  tools  when  I've  left  them  behind.  And  I  did  leave 
my  hammer  behind  when  I  fixed  the  stove  in  the  student's 
room. 

Rudolph.  And  the  stone-cutter,  the  gardener,  Mrs.  Wester- 
lund,  even  the  painter  over  there — we  are  all  of  us  under  sus- 
picion— the  student,  the  cook,  and  myself  more  than  the  rest. 
Lucky  it  was  that  I  had  paid  the  insurance  the  day  before,  or 
I  should  have  been  stuck  for  good. — Think  of  it:  the  stone- 
cutter suspected  of  arson — he  who's  so  afraid  of  doing  any- 
thing wrong!  He's  so  conscientious  nowadays  that  if  you 
ask  him  what  time  it  is  he  won't  swear  to  it,  as  his  watch 
may  be  wrong.  Of  course,  we  all  know  he  got  two  years,  but 
he's  reformed,  and  I'll  swear  now  he's  the  straightest  man  in 
the  quarter. 

Anderson.  But  the  police  suspect  him  because  he  went 
wrong  once — and  he  ain't  got  his  citizenship  back  yet. 

Rudolph.  Oh,  there  are  so  many  ways  of  looking  at  a 
thing— so  many  ways,  I  tell  you. — Well,  Anderson,  I  guess 
you'd  better  quit  for  the  day,  seeing  as  you're  going  to  the 
wedding  to-night. 

Anderson.  Yes,  that  wedding —  There  was  somebody 
looking  for  you  a  while  ago,  and  he  said  he  would  be  back. 

Rudolph.  Who  was  it? 

Anderson.  He  didn't  say. 

Rudolph.  Police,  was  it? 

Anderson.  Naw,  I  don't  think  so. — There  he  is  coming 
now,  for  that  matter.  [He  goes  out,  together  with  his  wife. 
The  Stranger  enters. 

Rudolph.  [Regards  him  with  curiosity  at  first,  then  with 
horror;  wants  to  rim  away,  but  cannot  move]  Arvid! 

Stranger.  Rudolph! 

Rudolph.  So  it's  you! 


scene i  AFTER    THE    FIRE  243 

Stranger.  Yes.  [Pause. 

Rudolph.  You're  not  dead,  then? 

Stranger.  In  a  way,  yes ! — I  have  come  back  from  America 
after  thirty  years — there  was  something  that  pulled  at  me — 
I  wanted  to  see  my  childhood's  home  once  more — and  I  found 
those  ruins!  [Pause]  It  burned  down  last  night? 

Rudolph.  Yes,  you  came  just  in  time.  [Pause. 

Stranger.  [Dragging  his  words]  That's  the  place — such  ;i 
tiny  place  for  such  a  lot  of  destinies!  There's  the  dining- 
room  with  the  frescoed  walls:  palms,  and  cypresses,  and  a 
temple  beneath  a  rose-coloured  sky — that's  the  way  I  dreamt 
the  world  would  look  the  moment  I  got  away  from  home. 
And  the  stove  with  its  pale  blossoms  growing  out  of  conches. 
And  the  chimney  cupboard  with  its  metal  doors — I  remem- 
ber as  a  child,  when  we  had  just  moved  in,  somebody  had 
scratched  his  name  on  the  metal,  and  then  grandmother  told 
us  it  was  the  name  of  a  man  who  had  killed  himself  in  that 
very  room.  I  quickly  forgot  all  about  it,  but  when  I  later 
married  a  niece  of  the  same  man,  it  seemed  to  me  as  if  my 
destiny  had  been  foretold  on  that  plate  of  metal. — You  don't 
believe  in  that  kind  of  thing,  do  you? — However,  you  know 
how  my  marriage  ended! 

Rudolph.  Yes,  I've  heard 

Stranger.  And  there's  the  nursery — yes! 

Rudolph.  Don't  let  us  start  digging  in  the  ruins! 

Stranger.  Why  not?  After  the  fire  is  out  you  can  read 
things  in  the  ashes.  We  used  to  do  it  as  children,  in  the 
stove 

Rudolph.  Come  and  sit  down  at  the  table  here! 

Stranger.  What  place  is  that?  Oh,  the  tavern — "The 
Last  Nail"— where  the  hearse-drivers  used  to  stop,  and  where, 
once  upon  a  time,  condemned  culprits  were  given  a  final  glass 
before  they  were  taken  to  the  gallows —     Who  is  keeping  it? 


^44  AFTER    THE    FIRE  scene  i 

Rudolph.  Mrs.  Westerlund,  who  used  to  be  my  nurse. 

Stranger.  Mrs.  Westerlund — I  remember  her.  It  is  as 
if  the  bench  sank  from  under  me,  and  I  was  sent  tumbling 
through  the  past,  sixty  whole  years,  down  into  my  childhood. 
I  breathe  the  nursery  air  and  feel  it  pressing  on  my  chest. 
You  older  ones  weighed  me  down,  and  you  made  so  much 
noise  that  I  was  always  kept  in  a  state  of  fright.  My  fears 
made  me  hide  in  the  garden — then  I  was  dragged  forward  and 
given  a  spanking — always  spankings — but  I  never  knew  why, 
and  I  don't  know  it  yet.     And  yet  she  was  my  mother 

Rudolph.  Please! 

Stranger.  Yes,  you  were  the  favourite,  and  as  such  you 
always  had  her  support —  Then  we  got  a  stepmother.  Her 
father  was  an  undertaker's  assistant,  and  for  years  we  had 
been  seeing  him  drive  by  with  funerals.  At  last  he  came  to 
know  us  so  well  by  sight  that  he  used  to  nod  and  grin  at  us, 
as  if  he  meant  to  say:  "Oh,  I'll  come  for  you  sooner  or 
later!"'  And  then  he  came  right  into  our  house  one  day, 
and  had  to  be  called  grandfather — when  our  father  took  his 
daughter  for  his  second  wife. 

Rudolph.  There  was  nothing  strange  in  that. 

Stranger.  No,  but  somehow,  as  our  own  destinies,  and 
those  of  other  people,  were  being  woven  into  one  web 

Rudolph.  Oh,  that's  what  happens  everywhere 

Stranger.  Exactly!  It's  the  same  everywhere.  In  your 
youth  you  see  the  web  set  up.  Parents,  relatives,  comrades, 
acquaintances,  servants  form  the  warp.  Later  on  in  life  the 
weft  becomes  visible.  And  then  the  shuttle  of  fate  runs  back 
and  forth  with  the  thread — sometimes  it  breaks,  but  is  tied 
up  again,  and  it  goes  on  as  before.  The  reed  clicks,  the  thread 
is  packed  together  into  curlicues,  and  one  day  the  web  lies 
ready.  In  old  age,  when  the  eye  has  learned  how  to  see,  you 
discover  that  those  curlicues  form  a  pattern,  a  monogram, 


SCENE  I 


AFTER    THE    FIRE  245 


an  ornament,  a  hieroglyph,  which  only  then  can  be  inter- 
preted: that's  life!  The  world-weaver  has  woven  it!  [Pause; 
he  rises]  Over  there,  in  that  scrap-heap,  I  notice  the  family 
album,  [He  walks  a  few  steps  to  the  right  and  picks  up  a  photo- 
graph album]  That's  the  book  of  our  family  fate.  Grand- 
father and  grandmother,  father  and  mother,  brothers  and  sis- 
ters, relatives,  acquaintances — or  so-called  "friends" — school- 
mates, servants,  godparents.  And,  strange  to  say,  wherever 
I  have  gone,  in  America  or  Australia,  to  Hongkong  or  the 
Congo,  everywhere  I  found  at  least  one  countryman,  and  as 
we  began  to  dig  it  always  came  out  that  this  man  knew  my 
family,  or  at  least  some  godfather  or  maid  servant — that,  in 
a  word,  we  had  some  common  acquaintances.  I  even  found 
a  relative  in  the  island  of  Formosa 

Rudolph.  What  has  put  those  ideas  into  your  head? 

Stranger.  The  fact  that  life,  however  it  shaped  itself — 
I  have  been  rich  and  poor,  exalted  and  humbled;  I  have  suf- 
fered a  shipwreck  and  passed  through  an  earthquake — but, 
however  life  shaped  itself,  I  always  became  aware  of  con- 
nections and  repetitions.  I  saw  in  one  situation  the  result 
of  another,  earlier  one.  On  meeting  this  person  I  was  re- 
minded of  that  one  whom  I  had  met  in  the  past.  There  have 
been  incidents  in  my  life  that  have  come  back  time  and  again, 
so  that  I  have  been  forced  to  say  to  myself:  this  I  have  been 
through  before.  And  I  have  met  with  occurrences  that 
seemed  to  me  absolutely  inevitable,  or  predestined. 

Rudolph.  What  have  you  done  during  all  these  years? 

Stranger.  Everything!  I  have  beheld  life  from  every 
quarter,  from  every  standpoint,  from  above  and  from  below, 
and  always  it  has  seemed  to  me  like  a  scene  staged  for  my 
particular  benefit.  And  in  that  way  I  have  at  last  become 
reconciled  to  a  part  of  the  past,  and  I  have  come  to  excuse 
not  only  my  own  but  also  other  people's  so-called  "faults." 


246  AFTER    THE    FIRE  scene  i 

You  and  I,  for  instance,  have  had  a  few  bones  to  pick  with 

each  other 

Rudolph  recoils  with  a  darkening  face. 

Stranger.  Don't  get  scared  now 

Rudolph.  I  never  get  scared! 

Stranger.  You  are  just  the  same  as  ever. 

Rudolph.  And  so  are  you ! 

Stranger.  Am  I?  That's  interesting! — Yes,  you  are  still 
living  in  that  delusion  about  your  own  bravery,  and  I  remem- 
ber exactly  how  this  false  idea  became  fixed  in  your  mind. 
We  were  learning  to  swim,  and  one  day  you  told  how  you  had 
<lived  into  the  water,  and  then  mother  said:  "Yes,  Rudolph, 
he  has  courage!"  That  was  meant  for  me — for  me  whom  you 
had  stripped  of  all  courage  and  self-assurance.  But  then  came 
the  day  when  you  had  stolen  some  apples,  and  you  were  too 
cowardly  to  own  up  to  it,  and  so  you  put  it  on  me. 

Rudolph.  Haven't  you  forgotten  that  yet? 

Stranger.  I  haven't  forgotten,  but  I  have  forgiven. — 
From  here,  where  I  am  sitting,  I  can  see  that  very  tree, 
and  that's  what  brought  it  into  my  mind.  It's  over  there, 
you  see,  and  it  bears  golden  pippins. — If  you  look,  you'll  see 
that  one  of  its  biggest  branches  has  been  sawed  off.  For  it 
so  happened  that  I  didn't  get  angry  with  you  on  account  of 
my  unjust  punishment,  but  my  anger  turned  against  the 
tree.  And  two  years  later  that  big  branch  was  all  dried  up 
and  had  to  be  sawed  off.  It  made  me  think  of  the  fig-tree 
that  was  cursed  by  the  Saviour,  but  I  was  not  led  into  any 
presumptuous  conclusions. — However,  I  still  know  all  those 
trees  by  heart,  and  once,  when  I  had  the  yellow  fever  in 
Jamaica,  I  counted  them  over,  every  one.  Most  of  them  are 
still  there,  I  see.  There's  the  snow-apple  which  has  red- 
striped  fruit — a  chaffinch  used  to  nest  in  it.  There's  the 
melon-apple,  standing   right   in   front  of  the  garret    where  I 


scene  i  AFTER    THE     FIRE  847 

used  to  study  for  technological  examinations;  there's  the 
spitzenburg,  and  the  late  astrachan;  and  the  pear-tree  that 
used  to  look  like  a  poplar  in  miniature;  and  the  one  with  pears 
that  could  only  be  used  for  preserves — they  never  ripened, 
and  we  despised  them,  but  mother  treasured  them  above 
all  the  rest;  and  in  that  tree  there  used  to  be  a  wryneck 
that  was  always  twisting  its  head  around  and  making  a  nasty 
cry —     That  was  fifty  years  ago! 

Rudolph.  [Irately]  What  are  you  driving  at? 

Stranger.  Just  as  touchy  and  ill-tempered  as  ever!  It's 
interesting. — There  was  no  special  purpose  back  of  my  chat- 
ter— my  memories  insist  on  pushing  forward —  I  remember 
that  the  garden  was  rented  to  somebody  else  once,  but  we 
had  the  right  to  play  in  it.  To  me  it  seemed  as  if  we  had 
been  driven  out  of  paradise — and  the  tempter  was  standing 
behind  every  tree.  In  the  fall,  when  the  ground  was  strewn 
with  ripe  apples,  I  fell  under  a  temptation  that  had  become 
irresistible 

Rudolph.  You  stole,  too? 

Stranger.  Of  course  I  did,  but  I  didn't  put  it  off  on  you! 
— When  I  was  forty  I  leased  a  lemon  grove  in  one  of  the 
Southern  States,  and — well,  there  were  thieves  after  the  trees 
every  night.  I  couldn't  sleep,  I  lost  flesh,  I  got  sick.  And 
then  I  thought  of — poor  Gustafson  here! 

Rudolph.  He's  still  living. 

Stranger.  Perhaps  he,  too,  stole  apples  in  his  childhood? 

Rudolph.  Probably. 

Stranger.  Why  are  your  hands  so  black? 

Rudolph.  Because  I  handle  dyed  stuffs  all  the  time. — 
Did  you  have  anything  else  in  mind? 

Stranger.  What  could  that  have  been? 

Rudolph.  That  my  hands  were  not  clean. 

Stranger.  Fudge! 


248  AFTER    THE    FIRE  scene  i 

Rudolph.  Perhaps  you  are  thinking  of  your  inheritance? 

Stranger.  Just  as  mean  as  ever!  Exactly  as  you  were 
\\  hen  eight  years  old! 

Rudolph.  And  you  are  just  as  heedless,  and  philosophical, 
and  silly! 

Stranger.  It's  a  curious  thing — but  I  wonder  how  many 
times  before  we  have  said  just  what  we  are  saying  now? 
[Pause]  I  am  looking  at  your  album  here — our  sisters  and 
brothers — five  dead! 

Rudolph.  Yes. 

Stranger.  And  our  schoolmates? 

Rudolph.  Some  taken  and  some  left  behind. 

Stranger.  I  met  one  of  them  in  South  Carolina — Axel 
Ericson — do  you  remember  him? 

Rudolph.  I  do. 

Stranger.  One  whole  night,  while  we  were  on  a  train  to- 
gether, he  kept  telling  me  how  our  highly  respectable  and 
respected  family  consisted  of  nothing  but  rascals;  that  it  had 
made  its  money  by  smuggling — you  know,  the  toll-gate  was 
right  here;  and  that  this  house  had  been  built  with  double 
walls  for  the  hiding  of  contraband.  Don't  you  see  that  the 
walls  are  double? 

Rudolph.  [Crushed]  So  that's  the  reason  why  we  had  clos- 
ets everywhere? 

Stranger.  The  father  of  that  fellow,  Ericson,  had  been  in 
the  custom-house  service  and  knew  our  father,  and  the  son 
told  me  a  lot  of  inside  stories  that  turned  my  whole  world  of 
imagined  conditions  topsyturvy. 

Ri  ijolph.  You  gave  him  a  licking,  I  suppose? 

Stbangeb.  Why  should  I  lick  him? — However,  my  hair 
turned  grey  that  night,  and  I  had  to  edit  my  entire  life  over 
again.  You  know  how  we  used  to  live  in  an  atmosphere  of 
mutual  admiration;  how  we  regarded  our  family  as  better 


scene i  AFTER    THE    FIRE  240 

than  all  others,  and  how,  in  particular,  our  parents  wen 
looked  up  to  with  almost  religious  veneration.  And  then  I 
had  to  paint  new  faces  on  them,  strip  them,  drag  them  down. 
eliminate  them.  It  was  dreadful !  Then  the  ghosts  began  1 1 . 
walk.  The  pieces  of  those  smashed  figures  would  eome  to- 
gether again,  but  not  properly,  and  the  result  would  be  ;i 
regular  wax  cabinet  of  monsters.  All  those  grey-haired  gen- 
tlemen whom  we  called  uncles,  and  who  came  to  our  house  to 
play  cards  and  eat  cold  suppers,  they  were  smugglers,  and 
some  of  them  had  been  in  the  pillory —     Did  you  know  that? 

Rudolph.  [Completely  overwhelmed]  No. 

Stranger.  The  dye  works  were  merely  a  hiding-place  for 
smuggled  yarn,  which  was  dyed  in  order  to  prevent  identi- 
fication. I  can  still  remember  how  I  used  to  hate  the  smell 
of  the  dyeing  vat — there  was  something  sickeningly  sweet 
about  it. 

Rudolph.  Why  did  you  have  to  tell  me  all  this? 

Stranger.  Why  should  I  keep  silent  about  it  and  let  you 
make  yourself  ridiculous  by  your  boasting  about  that  revered 
family  of  yours?  Have  you  never  noticed  people  grinning  at 
you? 

Rudolph.  No-o!  [Pause. 

Stranger.  I  am  now  looking  at  father's  bookcase  in  the 
pile  over  there.  It  was  always  locked,  you  remember.  But 
one  day,  when  father  was  out,  I  got  hold  of  the  key.  The 
books  in  front  I  had  seen  through  the  glass  doors,  of  course. 
There  were  volumes  of  sermons,  the  collected  works  of  great 
poets,  handbooks  for  gardening,  compilations  of  the  statutes 
referring  to  customs  duties  and  the  confiscation  of  smuggled 
goods;  the  constitution;  a  volume  about  foreign  coins;  and  a 
technical  work  that  later  determined  my  choice  of  a  career. 
But  back  of  those  books  there  was  room  for  other  tilings,  and 
I  began  to  explore.     First  of  all  I  found  the  rattan — and,  do 


250  AFTER    THE     FIRE  scene  i 

you  know,  I  have  since  learned  that  that  bitter  plant  bears 
a  fruit  from  which  we  get  the  red  dye  known  as  "dragon's 
blood":  now,  isn't  that  queer!  And  beside  the  rattan  stood 
a  bottle  labelled  "cyanide  of  potassium." 

Rudolph.  I  suppose  it  was  meant  for  use  over  at  the  works. 
Stranger.  Or  elsewhere,  perhaps.  But  this  is  what  I  had 
in  mind:  there  were  some  bundles  of  pamphlets  with  illus- 
trated covers  that  aroused  my  interest.  And,  to  put  it  plain, 
they  contained  the  notorious  memoirs  of  a  certain  chevalier — 
I  took  them  out  and  locked  the  case  again.  And  beneath  the 
big  oak  over  there  I  studied  them.  We  used  to  call  that  oak 
the  Tree  of  Knowledge — and  it  was,  all  right!  And  in  that 
way  I  left  my  childhood's  paradise  to  become  initiated,  all 
too  early,  into  those  mysteries  which — yes! 
Rudolph.  You,  too? 

Stranger.  Yes,  I,  too!  [Pause]  However— let  us  talk  of 
something  else,  as  all  that  is  now  in  ashes. — Did  you  have 
any  insurance? 

Rudolph.  [Angrily]  Didn't  you  ask  that  a  while  ago? 
Stranger.  Not  that  I  can  recall.     It  happens  so  often 
that  I  confuse  what  I  have  said  with  what  I  have  intended  to 
say,  and  mostly  because  I  think  so  intensely — ever  since  that 
day  when  I  tried  to  hang  myself  in  the  closet. 
Rudolph.  What  is  that  you  are  saying? 
Stranger.  I  tried  to  hang  myself  in  the  closet. 
Rldolph.  [Speaking  very  slowly]  Was  that  what  happened 
that  Holy  Thursday  Eve,  when  you  were  taken  to  the  hos- 
pital  -what  the  rest  of  us  children  were  never  permitted  to 
know? 

Stranger.  [Speaking  in  the  same  manner]  Yes. — There  you 
can  see  how  little  we  know  about  those  that  are  nearest  to  us, 
about  our  own  homes  and  our  own  lives. 
Hi  DOLPH.  But  why  did  you  do  it? 


scene  i  AFTER    THE    FIRE  251 

Stranger.  I  was  twelve  years  old,  and  tired  of  life!  It 
was  like  groping  about  in  a  great  darkness — I  couldn't  un- 
derstand what  I  had  to  do  here— and  I  thought  the  world 
a  madhouse.  I  reached  that  conclusion  one  day  when  our 
school  was  turned  out  with  torches  and  banners  to  celebrate 
"the  destroyer  of  our  country."  For  I  had  just  read  a  book 
which  proved  that  our  country  had  been  brought  to  destruc- 
tion by  the  worst  of  all  its  kings — and  that  was  the  one  whose 
memory  we  had  to  celebrate  with  hymns  and  festivities.1 

[Pause. 

Rudolph.  What  happened  at  the  hospital? 

Stranger.  My  dear  fellow,  I  was  actually  put  into  the 
morgue  as  dead.  Whether  I  was  or  not,  I  don't  know — but 
when  I  woke  up,  most  of  my  previous  life  had  been  for- 
gotten, and  I  began  a  new  one,  but  in  such  a  manner  that 
the  rest  of  you  thought  me  peculiar. — Are  you  married  again? 

Rudolph.  I  have  wife  and  children — somewhere. 

Stranger.  When  I  recovered  consciousness  I  seemed  to 
myself  another  person.  I  regarded  life  with  cynical  calm: 
it  probably  had  to  be  the  way  it  was.  And  the  worse  it 
turned  out  the  more  interesting  it  became.  After  that  I 
looked  upon  myself  as  if  I  were  somebody  else,  and  I  observed 
and  studied  that  other  person,  and  his  fate,  thereby  rendering 
myself  callous  to  my  own  sufferings.  But  while  dead  I  had 
acquired  new  faculties — I  could  see  right  through  people, 
read  their  thoughts,  hear  their  intentions.  In  company,  I 
beheld  them  stripped  naked —  Where  did  you  say  the  fire 
started? 

Rudolph.  Why,  nobody  knows. 

Stranger.  But  the  newspapers  said  that  it  began  in  a 

'This  refers  to  King  Charles  XII  of  Sweden,  whose  memory  Strindberg  hated 
mainly  because  of  the  use  made  of  it  by  the  jingo  elements  of  the  Swedish  upper 
classes. 


AFTER    THE    FIRE  scene i 

closet  right  under  the  student's  garret — what  kind  of  a  stu- 
dent is  he? 

Rudolph.  [Appalled]  Is  it  in  the  newspapers?  I  haven't 
had  time  to  look  at  them  to-day.     What  more  have  they  got? 

Stranger.  They  have  got  everything. 

Rudolph.  Everything? 

Stranger.  The  double  walls,  the  respected  family  of  smug- 
glers, the  pillory,  the  hairpins 

Rudolph.  What  hairpins? 

Stranger.  I  don't  know,  but  they  are  there.  Do  you  know? 

Rudolph.  Naw! 

Stranger.  Everything  was  brought  to  light,  and  you  may 
look  for  a  stream  of  people  coming  here  to  stare  at  all  that 
exposed  rottenness. 

Rudolph.  Lord  have  mercy!  And  you  take  pleasure  at 
seeing  your  family  dragged  into  scandal? 

Stranger.  My  family?  I  have  never  felt  myself  related 
to  the  rest  of  you.  I  have  never  had  any  strong  feeling  either 
for  my  fellow  men  or  myself.  I  think  it's  interesting  to  watch 
them — that's  all —    What  sort  of  a  person  is  your  wife? 

Rudolph.  Was  there  anything  about  her,  too? 

Stranger.  About  her  and  the  student. 

Rudolph.  Good!  Then  I  was  right.  Just  wait  and  you'll 
see! — There  comes  the  stone-cutter. 

Stranger.  You  know  him? 

Rudolph.  And  so  do  you.     A  schoolmate — Albert  Ericson. 

Stranger.  Whose  father  was  in  the  customs  service  and 
whose  brother  I  met  on  the  train — he  who  was  so  very  well 
informed  about  our  family. 

Rudolph.  That's  the  infernal  cuss  who  has  blabbed  to  the 
papers,  then! 

Ericson  enters  with  a  pick  and  begins  to  look  over  the 
ruins. 


scene  i  AFTER    THE    EIRE 

Stranger.  What  a  ghastly  figure! 

Rudolph.  He's  been  in  jail — two  years.  Do  you  know 
what  he  did?  He  made  some  erasures  in  a  contract  between 
him  and  myself 

Stranger.  You  sent  him  to  jail!  And  now  he  has  had  his 
revenge ! 

Rudolph.  But  the  queerest  part  of  it  is  that  nowadays  he 
is  regarded  as  the  most  honest  man  in  the  whole  district. 
He  has  become  a  martyr,  and  almost  a  saint,  so  that  nobody 
dares  say  a  word  against  him. 

Stranger.  That's  interesting,  indeed! 

Detective.  [Entering,  turns  to  Ericson]  Can  you  pull 
down  that  wall  over  there? 

Ericson.  The  one  by  the  closet? 

Detective.  That's  the  one. 

Ericson.  That's  where  the  fire  started,  and  I'm  sure  you'll 
find  a  candle  or  a  lamp  around  there — for  I  know  the  people! 

Detective.  Go  ahead  then! 

Ericson.  The  closet  door  was  burned  off,  to  be  sure,  but 
the  ceiling  came  down,  and  that's  why  we  couldn't  find  out, 
but  now  we'll  use  the  beak  on  it!  [He  falls  to  with  his  pick] 
Ho-hey,  ho-ho! — Ho-hey,  leggo! — Ho-hey,  for  that  one! — 
Do  you  see  anything? 

Detective.  Not  yet. 

Ericson.  [Working  away  as  before]  Now  I  can  see  sonic- 
thing! — The  lamp  has  exploded,  but  the  stand  is  left! — Who 
knows  this  forfeit  for  his  own? — Didn't  I  see  the  dyer  some- 
where around  here? 

Detective.  There  he  is  sitting  now.  [He  picks  the  lamp 
from  the  debris  and  holds  it  up]  Do  you  recognise  your  lamp, 
Mr.  Walstrom? 

Rudolph.  That  isn't  mine — it  belonged  to  our  tutor. 

Detective.  The  student?     Where  is  he  now? 


25 1  AFTER    Til  E     F  I  R  E  bcen  e  i 

Rudolph.  He's  down-town,  but  I  suppose  he'll  soon  be 
here,  as  his  books  are  lying  over  then'. 

Detective.  How  did  his  lamp  get  into  the  cook's  closet? 
Did  he  have  anything  to  do  with  her? 

Rudolph.  Probably! 

Detective.  The  only  thing  needed  now  is  that  he  identify 
the  lamp  as  his  own,  and  he  will  be  arrested.  What  do  you 
think  of  it,  Mr.  Walstrom? 

Rudolph.  I?     Well,  what  is  there  to  think? 

Detective.  What  reason  could  he  have  for  setting  fire  to 
another  person's  house? 

Rudolph.  I  don't  know.  Malice,  or  mere  mischief — you 
never  can  tell  what  people  may  do —  Or  perhaps  there  was 
something  he  wanted  to  cover  up. 

Detective.  That  would  have  been  a  poor  way,  as  old  rot- 
tenness always  will  out.  Did  he  have  any  grudge  against 
you? 

Rudolph.  It's  likely,  for  I  helped  him  once  when  he  was 
hard  up,  and  he  has  hated  me  ever  since,  of  course. 

Detective.  Of  course?  [Pause]  Who  is  he)  then? 

Rudolph.  He  was  raised  in  an  orphanage — born  of  un- 
known parents. 

Detective.  Haven't  you  a  grown-up  daughter,  Mr.  Wal- 
strom? 

Rudolph.  [Angered]  Of  course  I  have! 

Detective.  Oh,  you  have!  [Pause;  then  to  Ericson]  Now 
you  bring  those  twelve  men  of  yours  and  pull  down  the  walls 
quick.     Then  we'll  see  what  new  things  come  to  light. 

[He  goes  out. 

Ericson.  That'll  be  done  in  a  jiffy.  [Goes  out. 

[Pause. 

Stranger.  Have  you  really  paid  up  your  insurance? 

Rudolph.  Of  course! 


SCENE  I 


AFTER    THE     FIRE  255 


Stranger.  Personally? 

Rudolph.  No,  I  sent  it  in  as  usual. 

Stranger.  You  sent  it — by  somebody  else!  That's  just 
like  you! — Suppose  we  take  a  turn  through  the  garden  and 
have  a  look  at  the  apple-trees. 

Rudolph.  All  right,  and  then  we'll  see  what  happens  after- 
ward. 

Stranger.  Now  begins  the  most  interesting  part  of  all. 

Rudolph.  Perhaps  not  quite  so  interesting  if  you  find 
yourself  mixed  up  in  it. 

Stranger.  I? 

Rudolph.  Who  can  tell? 

Stranger.  What  a  web  it  is! 

Rudolph.  There  was  a  child  of  yours  that  went  to  the 
orphanage,  I  think? 

Stranger.  God  bless  us! — Let's  go  over  into  the  garden! 

Curtain. 


SECOND    SCENE 

The  same  setting  as  before  with  the  exception  that  the  ivalls  have 
been  torn  dovm  so  that  the  garden  is  made  visible,  with  its 
vast  variety  of  spring  flowers — daphnes,  deutzias,  daffodils, 
narcissuses,  hdips,  auriculas — and  xoith  all  the  fruit-trees 
in  bloom. 

Ericson,  Anderson  and  his  old  wife,  Gustafson,  the  Hearse- 
Driver,  Mrs.  Westerltjnd,  and  the  painter,  Sjoblom, 
are  standing  in  a  row  staring  at  the  spot  where  the  house 
used  to  be. 

Stranger.  [Entering]  There  they  stand,  enjoying  the  mis- 
fortune that's  in  the  air  and  waiting  for  the  victim  to  appear — 
he  being  the  principal  item.  That  the  fire  was  incendiary 
they  take  for  granted,  merely  because  they  want  it  that  way. 
■ — And  all  these  rascals  are  the  friends  and  comrades  of  my 
youth.  I  am  even  related  to  the  hearse-driver  through  my 
stepmother,  whose  father  used  to  help  carry  out  the  coffins — 
[He  speaks  to  tlie  crowd  of  spectators]  Look  here,  you  people,  I 
shouldn't  stand  there  if  I  were  you.  There  may  have  been 
some  dynamite  stored  in  the  cellar,  and  if  such  were  the  case 
an  explosion  might  take  place  any  moment. 

The  curious  crowd  scatters  and  disappears. 

Stranger.  [Stoops  over  the  scrap-heap  and  begins  to  poke  in 
the  books  piled  there]  Those  are  the  student's  books —  Same 
kind  of  rot  as  in  my  youth — Livy's  Roman  history,  which  is 
said  to  be  lies,  every  word —     But  here's  a  volume  out  of  my 

256 


scene  ii  AFTER    THE     FIRE  257 

brother's  library — "Columbus,  or  the  Discovery  of  America"! 
My  own  book,  which  I  got  as  a  Christmas  gift  in  1857.     My 
name  has  been  erased.     This  means  it  was  stolen  from  me — 
and  I  accused  one  of  our  maids,  who  was  discharged  on  that 
account!     Fine  business!     Perhaps  it  led  to  her  ruin — fifty 
years  ago!     Here  is  the  frame  of  one  of  our  family  portraits; 
my  renowned  grandfather,  the  smuggler,  who  was  put  in  the 
pillory — fine! — But  what  is  this?     The  foot-piece  of  a  mahog- 
any bed — the  one  in  which  I  was  born!     Oh,  damn! — Next 
item:  a  leg  of  a  dinner-table — the  one  that  was  an  heirloom. 
Why,  it  was  supposed  to  be  of  ebony,  and  was  admired  on 
that  account!    And  now,  after  fifty  years,  I  discover  it  to  be 
made  of  painted  maple.     Everything  had  its  colours  changed 
in  our  house  to  render  it  unrecognisable,  even  the  clothes  of  us 
children,  so  that  our  bodies  always  were  stained  with  various 
dyes.     Ebony — humbug!     And  here's  the  dining-room  clock 
— smuggled  goods,  that,  too — which  has  measured  out  the 
time  for  two  generations.     It  was  wound  up  every  Saturday, 
when  we  had  salt  codfish  and  a  posset  made  with  beer  for 
dinner.     Like  all  intelligent  clocks,  it  used  to  stop  when  any- 
body died,  but  when  I  died  it  went  on  just  as  before.     Let 
me  have  a  look  at  you,  old  friend — I  want  to  see  your  insides. 
[As  he  touches  the  clock  it  falls  to  pieces]  Can't  stand  being 
handled!     Nothing  could  stand  being  handled  in  our  home 
— nothing !     Vanity,  vanity  .'—But  there's  the  globe  that  was 
on  top  of  the  clock,  although  it  ought  to  have  been  at  the 
bottom.     You  tiny  earth:   you,  the  densest  and  the  heav- 
iest of  all  the  planets — that's  what  makes  everything  on  you 
so    heavy — so  heavy  to  breathe,  so  heavy  to  carry.     The 
cross  is  your  symbol,  but  it  might  just  as  well  have  been  a 
fool's  cap  or  a  strait- jacket — you  world  of  delusions  and  de- 
luded!— Eternal  One — perchance  Thy  earth  has  gone  astray 
in  the  limitless  void?     And  what  set  it  whirling  so  that  Thy 


258  AFTER    THE    FIRE  scene  n 

children  were  made  dizzy,  and  lost  their  reason,  and  became 
incapable  of  seeing  what  really  is  instead  of  what  only  seems? 
— Amen! — And  here  is  the  student! 

The  Student  enters  and  looks  around  in  evident  search 
of  somebody. 

Stranger.  He  is  looking  for  the  mistress  of  the  house. 
And  he  tells  everything  he  knows — with  his  eyes.  Happy 
youth! — Whom  are  you  looking  for? 

Student.  [Embarrassed]  I  was  looking 

Stranger.  Speak  up,  young  man — or  keep  silent.  I  un- 
derstand you  just  the  same. 

Student.  With  whom  have  I  the  honour 

Stranger.  It's  no  special  honour,  as  you  know,  for  once  I 
ran  away  to  America  on  account  of  debts 

Student.  That  wasn't  right. 

Stranger.  Right  or  wrong,  it  remains  a  fact. — So  you  were 
looking  for  Mrs.  Walstrom?  Well,  she  isn't  here,  but  I  am 
sure  that  she  will  come  soon,  like  all  the  rest,  for  they  are 
drawn  by  the  fire  like  moths 

Student.  By  a  candle! 

Stranger.  That's  what  you  say,  but  I  should  rather  have 
said  "lamp,"  in  order  to  choose  a  more  significant  word. 
However,  you  had  better  hide  your  feelings,  my  dear  fellow, 
if  you  can — I  can  hide  mine! — We  were  talking  of  that  lamp, 
were  we  not?     How  about  it? 

Student.  Which  lamp? 

Stranger.  Well,  well!  Every  one  of  them  lies  and  denies! 
— The  lamp  that  was  placed  in  the  cook's  closet  and  set  fire 
to  the  house? 

Student.  I  know  nothing  about  it. 

Stranger.  Some  blush  when  they  lie  and  others  turn  pale. 
This  one  has  invented  an  entirely  new  manner. 

Student.  Are  you  talking  to  yourself,  sir? 


SCENE  II 


AFTER     THE     FIRE  259 


Stranger.  I  have  that  bad  habit. — Are  your  parents  still 
living? 

Student.  They  are  not. 

Stranger.  Now  you  lied  again,  but  unconsciously. 

Student.  I  never  tell  a  lie! 

Stranger.  Not  more  than  three  in  these  few  moments! 
I  know  your  father. 

Student.  I  don't  believe  it. 

Stranger.  So  much  the  better  for  me! — Do  you  see  this 
scarf-pin?  It's  pretty,  isn't  it?  But  I  never  see  anything  of 
it  myself — I  have  no  pleasure  in  its  being  there,  while  every- 
body else  is  enjoying  it.  There  is  nothing  selfish  about  that, 
is  there?  But  there  are  moments  when  I  should  like  to  see  it 
in  another  man's  tie  so  that  I  might  have  a  chance  to  admire 
it.     Would  you  care  to  have  it? 

Student.  I  don't  quite  understand —  Perhaps,  as  you  said, 
it's  better  not  to  wear  it. 

Stranger.  Perhaps! — Don't  get  impatient  now.  She  will 
be  here  soon. — Do  you  find  it  enviable  to  be  young? 

Student.  I  can't  say  that  I  do. 

Stranger.  No,  youth  is  not  its  own  master;  it  has  never 
any  money,  and  has  to  take  its  food  out  of  other  hands;  it  is 
not  permitted  to  speak  when  company  is  present,  but  is 
treated  as  an  idiot;  and  as  it  cannot  marry,  it  has  to  ogle  other 
people's  wives,  which  leads  to  all  sorts  of  dangerous  conse- 
quences.    Youth — humbug! 

Student.  That's  right!  As  a  child,  you  want  to  grow  up 
— that  is,  reach  fifteen,  be  confirmed,  and  put  on  a  tall  hat. 
When  you  are  that  far,  you  want  to  be  old — that  is,  twenty- 
one.     Which  means  that  nobody  wants  to  be  young. 

Stranger.  And  when  you  grow  old  in  earnest,  then  you 
want  to  be  dead.  For  then  there  isn't  much  left  to  wish  for. 
— Do  you  know  that  you  are  to  be  arrested  ? 


2G0  AFTER    THE    FIRE  scene  n 

Student.  Am  I? 

Stranger.  The  detective  said  so  a  moment  ago. 

Student.  Me? 

Stranger.  Are  you  surprised  at  that?  Don't  you  know 
that  in  this  life  you  must  be  prepared  for  anything? 

Student.  But  what  have  I  done? 

Stranger.  You  don't  have  to  do  anything  in  order  to  be 
arrested.     To  be  suspected  is  enough. 

Student.  Then  everybody  might  be  arrested! 

Stranger.  Exactly!  The  rope  might  be  laid  around  the 
neck  of  the  whole  race  if  justice  were  wanted,  but  it  isn't. 
It's  a  disgusting  race:  ugly,  sweating,  ill-smelling;  its  linen 
dirty,  its  stockings  full  of  holes;  with  chilblains  and  corns — 
ugh!  No,  an  apple-tree  in  bloom  is  far  more  beautiful.  Or 
look  at  the  lilies  in  the  field — they  seem  hardly  to  belong  here 
— and  what  fragrance  is  theirs! 

Student.  Are  you  a  philosopher,  sir? 

Stranger.  Yes,  I  am  a  great  philosopher. 

Student.  Now  you  are  poking  fun  at  me! 

Stranger.  You  say  that  to  get  away.  Well,  begone 
then!     Hurry  up! 

Student.  I  was  expecting  somebody. 

Stranger.  So  I  thought.  But  I  think  it  would  be  better 
to  go  and  meet 

Student.  She  asked  you  to  tell  me? 

Stranger.  Oh,  that  wasn't  necessary. 

Student.  Well,  if  that's  so — I  don't  want  to  miss 


[He  goes  out. 
Stranger.  Can  that  be  my  son?  Well,  if  it  comes  to  the 
worst — I  was  a  child  myself  once,  and  it  was  neither  remark- 
able nor  pleasant —  And  I  am  his — what  of  it?  And  for  that 
matter — who  knows? — Now  I'll  have  a  look  at  Mrs.  Wester- 
Iund.     She  used  to  work  for  my  parents — was  faithful  and 


scene  ii  AFTER    THE     FIRE  261 

good-tempered;  and  when  she  had  been  pilfering  for  ten  years 
she  was  raised  to  the  rank  of  a  "trusted"  servant.  [He  seats 
himself  at  the  table  in  front  of  the  inn]  There  are  Gustafson's 
wreaths — just  as  carelessly  made  as  they  were  forty  years 
ago.  He  was  always  careless  and  stupid  in  all  he  did,  and 
so  he  never  succeeded  with  anything.  But  much  might  be 
pardoned  him  on  account  of  his  self-knowledge.  "Poor  fool 
that  I  am,"  he  used  to  say,  and  then  he  would  pull  off  his 
cap  and  scratch  his  head. — Why,  there's  a  myrtle  plant!  [He 
knocks  at  the  pot]  Not  watered,  of  course!  He  always  forgot 
to  water  his  plants,  the  damned  fool — and  yet  he  expected 
them  to  grow. 

Sjoblom,  the  painter,  appears. 

Stranger.  I  wonder  who  that  painter  can  be.  Probably 
he  belongs  also  to  the  Bog,  and  perhaps  he  is  one  of  the  threads 
in  my  own  web. 

Sjoblom  is  staring  at  the  Stranger  all  this  time. 

Stranger.  [Returning  the  stare]  Well,  do  you  recognise  me? 

Sjoblom.  Are  you — Mr.  Arvid? 

Stranger.  Have  been  and  am — if  perception  argues  being. 

[Pause. 

Sjoblom.  I  ought  really  to  be  mad  at  you. 

Stranger.  Well,  go  on  and  be  so!  However,  you  might 
tell  me  the  reason.  That  has  a  tendency  to  straighten  mat- 
ters out. 

Sjoblom.  Do  you  remember 

Stranger.  Unfortunately,  I  have  an  excellent  memory. 

Sjoblom.  Do  you  remember  a  boy  named  Robert? 

Stranger.  Yes,  a  regular  rascal  who  knew  how  to  draw. 

Sjoblom.  And  I  was  to  go  to  the  Academy  in  order  to  be- 
come a  real  painter,  an  artist.  But  just  about  that  time — 
colour-blindness  was  all  the  go.  You  were  studying  at  the 
Technological  Institute  then,  and  so  you  had  to  test  my  eyes 


262  A  F  T  E  R    T  1 1  E    F  I  R  E  s<  kne  n 

before  your  father  would  consent  to  scud  me  lo  the  art  classes. 
For  that  reason  you  brought  two  .skeins  of  yarn  from  the  dye 
works,  one  red  and  the  other  green,  and  then  you  asked  me 
about  them.  I  answered — called  the  red  green  and  the  green 
red — and  that  was  the  end  of  my  career 

Stranger.  But  that  was  as  it  should  be. 

Sjoblom.  No — for  the  truth  of  it  was,  I  could  distinguish 
the  colours,  but  not — the  names.  And  that  wasn't  found  out 
until  I  was  thirty-seven 

Stranger.  That  was  an  unfortunate  story,  but  I  didn't 
know  better,  and  so  you'll  have  to  forgive  me. 

Sjoblom.  How  can  I? 

Stranger.  Ignorance  is  pardonable!  And  now  listen  to 
me.  I  wanted  to  enter  the  navy,  made  a  trial  cruise  as  mid- 
shipman, seemed  to  become  seasick,  and  was  rejected!  But 
I  could  stand  the  sea,  and  my  sickness  came  from  having 
drunk  too  much.  So  my  career  was  spoiled,  and  I  had  to 
choose  another. 

Sjoblom.  What  have  I  got  to  do  with  the  navy?  I  had 
been  dreaming  of  Rome  and  Paris 

Stranger.  Oh,  well,  one  has  so  many  dreams  in  youth,  and 
in  old  age  too,  for  that  matter.  Besides,  what's  the  use  of 
bothering  about  what  happened  so  long  ago? 

Sjoblom.  How  you  talk!  Perhaps  you  can  give  me  back 
my  wasted  life 

Stranger.  No,  I  can't,  but  I  am  under  no  obligation  to  do 
so,  either.  That  trick  with  the  yarn  I  had  learned  at  school, 
and  you  ought  to  have  learned  the  proper  names  of  the  colours. 
And  now  you  can  go  to — one  dauber  less  is  a  blessing  to 
humanity! — There's  Mrs.  Westerlund! 

Sjoblom.  How  you  do  talk.  But  I  guess  you'll  get  what's 
coming  to  you! 

Mrs.  Westerlund  enters. 


scene  ii  AFTER    THE    FIRE  263 

Stranger.  How  d'you  do,  Mrs.  Westerlund?  I  am  Mr. 
Arvid — don't  get  scared  now!  I  have  been  in  America,  and 
how  are  you?  I  am  feeling  fine!  There  has  been  a  fire  here, 
and  I  hear  your  husband  is  dead — policeman,  I  remember, 
and  a  very  nice  fellow.  I  liked  him  for  his  good  humour  and 
friendly  ways.  He  was  a  harmless  jester,  whose  quips  never 
hurt.     I  recall  once 

Mrs.  Westerlund.  0,  merciful!  Is  this  my  own  Arvid 
whom  I  used  to  tend 

Stranger.  No,  that  wasn't  me,  but  my  brother — but  never 
mind,  it's  just  as  well  meant.  I  was  talking  of  your  old  man 
who  died  thirty-five  years  ago — a  very  nice  man  and  a  par- 
ticular friend  of  mine 

Mrs.  Westerlund.  Yes,  he  died.  [Pause]  But  I  don't 
know  if— perhaps  you  are  getting  him  mixed  up 

Stranger.  No,  I  don't.  I  remember  old  man  Westerlund 
perfectly,  and  I  liked  him  very  much. 

Mrs.  Westerlund.  [Reluctantly]  Of  course  it's  a  shame 
to  say  it,  but  I  don't  think  his  temper  was  very  good. 

Stranger.  What? 

Mrs.  Westerlund.  Well — he  had  a  way  of  getting  around 
people,  but  he  didn't  mean  what  he  said — or  if  he  did  he  meant 
it  the  other  way  around 

Stranger.  What  is  that?  Didn't  he  mean  what  he  was 
saying?     Was  he  a  hypocrite? 

Mrs.  Westerlund.  Well,  I  don't  like  to  say  it,  but  I  be- 
lieve  

Stranger.  Do  you  mean  to  say  that  he  wasn't  on  the 
level? 

Mrs.  Westerlund.  N— yes — he  was— a  little — well,  he 
didn't  mean  exactly  what  he  said —  And  how  have  you  been 
doing,  Mr.  Arvid? 

Stranger.  Now  a  light  is  dawning  on  me! — The  miserable 


264  AFTER    THE    FIRE  scene  11 

wretch !  And  here  I  have  been  praising  him  these  thirty-five 
years.  I  have  missed  him,  and  I  felt  something  like  sorrow 
at  his  departure — I  even  used  some  of  my  tobacco  allowance 
to  buy  a  wreath  for  his  coffin. 

Mrs.  Westerlund.  What  was  it  he  did?     What  was  it? 

Stranger.  The  villain!  [Pause]  Well — he  fooled  me — it 
was  Shrove  Tuesday,  I  remember.  He  told  me  that  if  one 
took  away  every  third  egg  from  a  hen  she  would  lay  so  many 
more.  I  did  it,  got  a  licking,  and  came  near  getting  into 
court.  But  I  never  suspected  him  of  having  told  on  me. — 
He  was  always  hanging  around  our  kitchen  looking  for  tid- 
bits, and  so  our  maids  could  do  just  what  they  pleased  about 
the  garbage — oh,  now  I  see  him  in  his  proper  aspect! — And 
here  I  am  now  getting  into  a  fury  at  one  who  has  been  thirty- 
five  years  in  his  grave? — So  he  was  a  satirist,  he  was — and  I 
didn't  catch  on — although  I  understand  him  now. 

Mrs.  Westerlund.  Yes,  he  was  a  little  satirical  all  right 
— I  ought  to  know  that! 

Stranger.  Other  things  are  coming  back  to  me  now — and 
I  have  been  saying  nice  things  about  that  blackguard  for 
thirty-five  years!  It  was  at  his  funeral  I  drank  my  first 
toddy —  And  I  remember  how  he  used  to  flatter  me,  and  call 
me  "professor"  and  "the  crown  prince" — ugh —  And  there 
is  the  stone-cutter!  You  had  better  go  inside,  madam,  or 
we'll  have  a  row  when  that  fellow  begins  to  turn  in  his  bills. 
Good-bye,  madam — we'll  meet  again ! 

Mrs.  Westerlund.  No  we  won't.  People  ought  never 
to  meet  again — it  is  never  as  it  used  to  be,  and  they  only  get 
to  clawing  at  each  other —  What  business  did  you  have  to 
tell  me  all  those  things — seeing  everything  was  all  right  as 

it  was [She  goes  out. 

Ericson,  the  stone-cutter,  comes  in. 

Stranger.  Come  on! 


scene  ii         A  F  T  E  K    T  II  E    FIRE  266 

Ericson.  What's  that? 
Stranger.  Come  on,  I  said! 
Ericson  stares  at  him. 

Stranger.  Are  you  looking  at  my  scarf-pin?     I  bought 
it  in  London. 
Ericson.  I  am  no  thief! 

Stranger.  No,  but  you  practise  the  noble  art  of  erasure. 
You  wipe  out! 

Ericson.  That's  true,  but  that  contract  was  sheer  robbery, 
and  it  was  strangling  me. 

Stranger.  Why  did  you  sign  it? 

Ericson.  Because  I  was  hard  up. 

Stranger.  Yes,  that  is  a  motive. 

Ericson.  But  now  I  am  having  my  revenge. 

Stranger.  Yes,  isn't  it  nice ! 

Ericson.  And  now  they  will  be  locked  up. 

Stranger.  Did  we  ever  fight  each  other  as  boys? 

Ericson.  No,  I  was  too  young. 

Stranger.  Have  we  never  told  lies  about  each  other,  or 
robbed  each  other,  or  got  in  each  other's  way,  or  seduced  each 
other's  sisters? 

Ericson.  Naw,  but  my  father  was  in  the  customs  sen  ice 
and  yours  was  a  smuggler. 

Stranger.  There  you  are!     That's  something,  at  k-a>t ! 

Ericson.  And  when  my  father  failed  to  catch  yours  he 
was  discharged. 

Stranger.  And  you  want  to  get  even  with  me  becaus< 
your  father  was  a  good-for-nothing? 

Ericson.  Why  did  you  say  a  while  ago  that  there  was  dy- 
namite in  the  cellar? 

Stranger.  Now,  my  dear  sir,  you  are  telling  lies  again.  I 
said  there  might  be  dynamite  in  the  cellar,  and  everything  im- 
possible, of  course. 


266  AFTER    THE    FIRE  scem.ii 

Kiucson.  And  in  the  meantime  the  student  has  been  ar- 
rested.    Do  you  know  him? 

Stranger.  Very  little — his  mother  more,  for  she  was  a 
maid  in  our  house.  She  was  both  pretty  and  good,  and  I  was 
making  up  to  her — until  she  had  a  child. 

Ericson.  And  were  you  not  its  father? 

Stranger.  I  was  not.  But  as  a  denial  of  fatherhood  is  not 
allowed,  I  suppose  I  must  be  regarded  as  a  sort  of  stepfather. 

Ericson.  Then  they  have  lied  about  you. 

Stranger.  Of  course.     But  that's  a  very  common  thing. 

Ericson.  And  I  was  among  those  who  testified  against 
you — under  oath! 

Stranger.  I  have  no  doubt  about  it,  but  what  does  it 
matter?  Nothing  matters  at  all!  But  now  we  had  better 
quit  pulling — or  we'll  get  the  whole  web  unravelled. 

Ericson.  But  think  of  me,  who  have  perjured  myself 

Stranger.  Yes,  it  isn't  pleasant,  but  such  things  will 
happen. 

Ericson.  It's  horrible — don't  you  find  life  horrible? 

Stranger.  [Covering  his  eyes  with  his  hand]  Yes,  horrible 
beyond  all  description! 

Ericson.  I  don't  want  to  live  any  longer! 

Stranger.  Must!  [Pause]  Must!  [Pause]  Tell  me — the 
student  is  arrested,  you  say — can  he  get  out  of  it? 

Ericson.  Hardly! — And  now,  as  we  are  talking  nicely,  I'll 
tell  you  something:  he  is  innocent,  but  he  cannot  clear  himself. 
For  the  only  witness  that  can  prove  him  innocent  would,  by 
doing  so,  prove  him  guilty — in  another  way. 

Stranger.  She  with  the  hairpins,  isn't  it? 

Ericson.  Yes. 

Stranger.  The  old  one  or  the  young  one? 

Ericson.  You  have  to  figure  that  out  yourself.  But  it 
isn't  the  cook. 


s<  i:\-e  ii  AFTER    T  HE    FIRE  267 

Stranger.  What  a  web  this  is! — But  who  put  the  lamp 
there? 

Ericson.  His  worst  enemy. 

Stranger.  And  did  his  worst  enemy  also  start  the  fire? 

Ericson.  That's  beyond  me!  Only  Anderson,  the  mason, 
knows  that. 

Stranger.  Who  is  he? 

Ericson.  The  oldest  one  in  the  place — some  kind  of  rela- 
tive of  Mrs.  Westerlund — knows  all  the  secrets  of  the  house 
—but  he  and  the  dyer  have  got  some  secrets  together,  so  he 
won't  tell  anything. 

Stranger.  And  the  lady — my  sister-in-law — who  is  she? 

Ericson.  Well — she  was  in  the  house  as  governess  when 
the  first  wife  cleared  out. 

Stranger.  What  sort  of  character  has  she  got? 

Ericson.  Hm!  Character?  I  don't  quite  know  what  that 
is.  Do  you  mean  trade?  The  old  assessment  blanks  used  to 
call  for  your  name  and  "character" — but  that  meant  occu- 
pation instead  of  character. 

Stranger.  I  mean  her  temper. 

Ericson.  Well,  it  changes,  you  know.  In  me  it  depends 
on  the  person  with  whom  I  am  talking.  With  decent  people 
I  am  decent,  and  with  the  cruel  ones  I  become  like  a  beast  of 
prey. 

Stranger.  But  I  was  talking  of  her  temper  under  ordinary 
circumstances. 

Ericson.  Well,  nothing  in  particular.  Gets  angry  if  you 
tease  her,  but  comes  around  after  a  while.  One  cannot  always 
have  the  same  temper,  of  course. 

Stranger.  I  mean,  is  she  merry  or  melancholy? 

Ericson.  When  things  go  right,  she  is  happy,  and  when 
they  go  wrong,  she  gets  sorry  or  angry — just  like  the  rest  of 
us. 


268  A  FTER    T  II  E     F  I  R  E  scene  □ 

Stranger.  Yes,  but  how  does  she  behave? 

ERICSON.  Oh,  what  does  it  matter?— Of  course,  being  an 
educated  person,  she  behaves  politely,  but  nevertheless,  you 
know,  she  can  get  nasty,  too,  when  her  blood  gets  to  boiling. 

Stranger.  But  that  doesn't  make  me  much  wiser. 

Ericson.  [Patting  him  on  the  shoulder]  No,  sir,  we  never 
get  much  wiser  when  it's  a  question  of  human  beings. 

Stranger.  Oh,  you're  a  marvel!— And  how  do  you  like 
my  brother,  the  dyer?  [Pause. 

Ericson.  Oh,  his  manners  are  pretty  decent.  And  more 
than  that  I  don't  know,  for  what  he  keeps  hidden  I  can't  find 
out,  of  course. 

Stranger.  Excellent!  But— his  hands  are  always  blue, 
and  yet  you  know  that  they  are  white  beneath  the  dye. 

Ericson.  But  to  make  them  so  they  should  be  scraped, 
and  that's  something  he  won't  permit. 

Stranger.  Good ! — Who  are  the  young  couple  coming  over 

there? 

Ericson.  That's  the  gardener's  son  and  my  daughter,  who 
were  to  have  been  married  to-night,  but  who  have  had  to 
postpone  it  on  account  of  the  fire —  Now  I  shall  leave,  for  I 
don't  want  to  embarrass  them.  You  understand— I  ain't 
much  as  a  father-in-law.     Good-bye!  [He  goes  out. 

The  Stranger  withdraics  behind  the  inn,  but  so  that  he 

remains  visible  to  the  spectators. 
Alfred  and  Mathilda  enter  hand  in  hand. 

Alfred.  I  had  to  have  a  look  at  this  place — I  had  to 

Mathilda.  Why  did  you  have  to  look  at  it? 

Alfred.  Because  I  have  suffered  so  much  in  this  house 
that  more  than  once  I  wished  it  on  fire. 

Mathilda.  Yes,  I  know,  it  kept  the  sun  out  of  the  gar- 
den, and  now  everything  will  grow  much  better — provided 
they  don't  put  up  a  still  higher  house 


scene  ii  A  FT  E  R    Til  E     F  I  H  E  269 

Alfred.  Now  it's  open  and  pleasant,  with  plenty  of  air 
and  sunlight,  and  I  hear  they  are  going  to  lay  out  a  street — 

Mathilda.  Won't  you  have  to  move  then? 

Alfred.  Yes,  all  of  us  will  have  to  move,  and  that's  what 
I  like — I  like  new  things — I  should  like  to  emigrate 

Mathilda.  Mercy,  no!  Do  you  know,  our  pigeons  were 
nesting  on  the  roof.  And  when  the  fire  broke  out  last  night 
they  kept  circling  around  the  place  at  first,  but  when  the  roof 
fell  in  they  plunged  right  into  the  flames—  They  couldn't 
part  from  their  old  home! 

Alfred.  But  we  must  get  out  of  here — must!  My  father 
says  that  the  soil  has  been  sucked  dry. 

Mathilda.  I  heard  that  the  cinders  left  by  the  fire  were  to 
be  spread  over  the  ground  in  order  to  improve  the  soil. 

Alfred.  You  mean  the  ashes? 

Mathilda.  Yes;  they  say  it's  good  to  sow  in  the  ashes. 

Alfred.  Better  still  on  virgin  soil. 

Mathilda.  But  your  father  is  ruined? 

Alfred,  Not  at  all.  He  has  money  in  the  bank.  Of 
course  he's  complaining,  but  so  does  everybody. 

Mathilda.  Has  he —     The  fire  hasn't  ruined  him? 

Alfred.  Not  a  bit!  He's  a  shrewd  old  guy,  although  he 
always  calls  himself  a  fool. 

Mathilda.  What  am  I  to  believe? 

Alfred.  He  has  loaned  money  to  the  mason  here— and  to 
others. 

Mathilda.  I  am  entirely  at  sea!     Am  I  dreaming?     The 
whole  morning  we  have  been  weeping  over  your  father's  mi- 
fortune  and  over  the  postponement  of  the  wedding 

Alfred.  Poor  little  thing!  But  the  wedding  is  to  take  place 
to-night 

Mathilda.  Is  it  not  postponed? 


270  AFTER    THE     FIRE  scene  ii 

Alfred.  Only  delayed  for  a  couple  of  hours  so  that  my 
father  will  have  time  to  get  his  new  coat. 

Mathilda.  And  we  who  have  been  weeping 

Alfred.  Useless  tears — such  a  lot  of  tears! 

Mathilda.  I  am  mad  because  they  were  useless — although 
— to  think  that  my  father-in-law  could  be  such  a  sly  one! 

Alfred.  Yes,  he  is  something  of  a  joker,  to  put  it  mildly. 
He  is  always  talking  about  how  tired  he  is,  but  that's  nothing 
but  laziness — oh,  he's  lazy,  I  tell  you 

Mathilda.  Don't  say  any  more  nasty  things  about  him 
— but  let  us  get  away  from  here.  I  have  to  dress,  you  know, 
and  put  up  my  hair. — Just  think,  that  my  father-in-law  isn't 
what  I  thought  him — that  he  could  be  fooling  us  like  that 
and  not  telling  the  truth!  Perhaps  you  are  like  that,  too? 
Oh,  that  I  can't  know  what  you  really  are! 

Alfred.  You'll  find  out  afterward. 

Mathilda.  But  then  it's  too  late. 

Alfred.  It's  never  too  late 

Mathilda.  All  you  who  lived  in  this  house  are  bad —  And 
now  I  am  afraid  of  you 

Alfred.  Not  of  me,  though? 

Mathilda.  I  don't  know  what  to  think.  Why  didn't  you 
tell  me  before  that  your  father  was  well  off? 

Alfred.  I  wanted  to  try  you  and  see  if  you  would  like  me 
as  a  poor  man. 

Mathilda.  Yes,  afterward  they  always  say  that  they 
wanted  to  try  you.  But  how  can  I  ever  believe  a  human 
being  again? 

Alfred.  Go  and  get  dressed  now.     I'll  order  the  carriages. 

Mathilda.  Are  we  to  have  carriages? 

Alfred.  Of  course — regular  coaches. 

Mathilda.  Coaches?  And  to-night?  What  fun!  Come 
— hurry  up!     We'll  have  carriages! 


SCENE  II 


AFTER    THE    FIRE  271 


Alfred.  [Gets  hold  of  her  hand  and  they  dance  out  together] 
Hey  and  ho!     Here  we  go! 

Stranger.  [Coming  fonoard]  Bravo ! 

The  Detective  enters  and  talks  in  a  low  tone  to  the 
Stranger,  who  ansioers  in  the  same  way.  This  lasts 
for  about  half  a  minute,  whereupon  the  Detective 
leaves  again. 

Mrs.  Walstrom.  [Enters,  dressed  in  black,  and  gazes  long 
at  the  Stranger]  Are  you  my  brother-in-law? 

Stranger.  I  am.  [Pause]  Don't  I  look  as  I  have  been 
described — or  painted? 

Mrs.  Walstrom.  Frankly,  no! 

Stranger.  No,  that  is  generally  the  case.  And  I  must 
admit  that  the  information  I  received  about  you  a  while  ago 
does  not  tally  with  the  original. 

Mrs.  Walstrom.  Oh,  people  do  each  other  so  much  wrong, 
and  they  paint  each  other  in  accordance  with  some  image 
within  themselves. 

Stranger.  And  they  go  about  like  theatrical  managers, 
distributing  parts  to  each  other.  Some  accept  their  parts; 
others  hand  them  back  and  prefer  to  improvise. 

Mrs.  WalstrSm.  And  what  has  been  the  part  assigned  to 
you? 

Stranger.  That  of  a  seducer.  Not  that  I  have  ever  been 
one!  I  have  never  seduced  anybody,  be  she  wife  or  maid, 
but  once  in  my  youth  I  was  seduced,  and  that's  why  the  part 
was  given  to  me.  Strange  to  say,  it  was  forced  on  me  so  long 
that  at  last  I  accepted  it.  And  for  twenty  years  I  carried  the 
bad  conscience  of  a  seducer  around  with  me. 

Mrs.  Walstrom.  You  were  innocent  then? 

Stranger.  I  was. 

Mrs.  W'alstrom.  How  curious!     And  to  this  day  my  hus- 


272  AFTER     THE     FIRE         scene  n 

hand  is  still  talking  of  the  Nemesis  that  has  pursued  you  be- 
cause you  seduced  another  man's  wife. 

Stranger.  I  fully  believe  it.  But  your  husband  repre- 
sents a  still  more  interesting  case.  He  has  created  a  new 
character  for  himself  out  of  lies.  Tell  me:  isn't  he  a  coward 
in  facing  the  struggles  of  life? 

Mrs.  Walstrom.  Of  course  he  is  a  coward! 

Stranger.  And  yet  he  boasts  of  his  courage,  which  is  noth- 
ing but  brutality. 

Mrs.  Walstrom.  You  know  him  pretty  well. 

Stranger.  Yes,  and  no! — And  you  have  been  living  in  the 
belief  that  you  had  married  into  a  respected  family  which 
had  never  disgraced  itself? 

Mrs.  Walstrom.  So  I  believed  until  this  morning. 

Stranger.  When  your  faith  crumbled!  What  a  web  of 
lies  and  mistakes  and  misunderstandings!  And  that  kind  of 
thing  we  are  supposed  to  take  seriously! 

Mrs.  Walstrom.  Do  you? 

Stranger.  Sometimes.  Very  seldom  nowadays.  I  walk 
like  a  somnambulist  along  the  edge  of  a  roof — knowing  that 
I  am  asleep,  and  yet  being  awake — and  the  only  thing  I  am 
waiting  for  is  to  be  waked  up. 

Mrs.  Walstrom.  You  are  said  to  have  been  across  to  the 
other  side? 

Stranger.  I  have  been  across  the  river,  but  the  only  thing 
I  can  recall  is — that  there  everything  was  what  it  pretended 
to  be.     That's  what  makes  the  difference. 

Mrs.  Wm.sthom.  When  nothing  stands  the  test  of  being 
touched,  what  are  you  then  to  hold  on  to? 

Stranger.  Don't  you  know? 

Mrs.  Walstrom.  Tell  me!     Tell  me! 

Stranger.  Sorrow  brings  patience;  patience  brings  experi- 


bceneu  A  FT  KR     T  IF  E     F  [RE 

ence;  experience  brings  hope;  and  hope  will  not  bring  us  to 

shame. 

Mrs.  Walstrom.  Hope,  yes! 

Stranger.  Yes.  hope! 

Mrs.  Walstrom.  Do  you  ever  think  it  pleasant  to  live? 

Stranger.  Of  course.  But  that  is  also  a  delusion.  I  tell 
you,  my  dear  sister-in-law,  that  when  yuii  happen  to  be  born 
without  a  film  over  your  eyes,  then  yon  see  life  and  your  t'<l- 
low  creatures  as  they  are — and  you  have  to  be  a  pig  to  feel  at 
home  in  such  a  mess. — But  when  you  have  been  looking  long 
enough  at  blue  mists,  then  you  turn  your  eyes  the  other  way 
and  begin  to  look  into  your  own  soul?  There  you  find  some- 
thing really  worth  looking  at. 

Mrs.  Walstrom.  And  what  is  it  you  sec? 

Stranger.  Your  own  self.  But  when  you  have  looked  at 
that  you  must  die. 

Mrs.  Walstrom.  [Covers  her  eyes  with  her  hands;  after  a 
pause  she  says]  Do  you  want  to  help  me? 

Stranger.  If  I  can. 

Mrs.  Walstrom.  Try. 

Stranger.  Wait  a  moment! — No,  I  cannot.  He  is  inno- 
cently accused.  Only  you  can  set  him  free  again.  Hut  thai 
you  cannot  do.     It's  a  net  that  has  not  been  tied  by  men 

Mrs.  Walstrom.  But  he  is  not  guilty. 

Stranger.  Who  is  guilty?  [Pause. 

Mrs.  Walstrom.  No  one!     It  was  an  accident! 

Stranger.  I  know  it. 

Mrs.  Walstrom.  What  am  I  to  do? 

Stranger.  Suffer.     It  will  pass.     For  that,  too,  is  vanity. 

Mrs.  Walstrom.  Suffer? 

Stranger.  Yes,  suffer!    But  with  hope! 

Mrs.  Walstrom.  [Holding  ovi  her  hand  to  Hm\  Thank  you! 

Stranger.  And  let  it  be  your  consolation 


274  AFTER    THE    FIRE  scene  ii 

Mrs.  Walstrom.  What? 

Stranger.  That  you  don't  suffer  innocently. 

Mrs.  Walstrom  walks  out  with  her  head  bent  low. 
The  Stranger  climbs  the  pile  of  debris  marking  the  site 
of  the  burned  house. 

Rudolph.  [Comes  in,  looking  happy]  Are  you  playing  the 
ghost  among  the  ruins? 

Stranger.  Ghosts  feel  at  home  among  ruins —  And  now 
you  are  happy? 

Rudolph.  Now  I  am  happy. 

Stranger.  And  brave? 

Rudolph.  Whom  have  I  got  to  fear,  or  what? 

Stranger.  I  conclude  from  your  happiness  that  you  are 
ignorant  of  one  important  fact —  Have  you  the  courage  to 
bear  a  piece  of  misfortune? 

Rudolph.  What  is  it? 

Stranger.  You  turn  pale? 

Rudolph.  I? 

Stranger.  A  serious  misfortune! 

Rudolph.  Speak  out! 

Stranger.  The  detective  was  here  a  moment  ago,  and  he 
told  me — in  confidence 

Rudolph.  What? 

Stranger.  That  the  premium  on  your  insurance  was  paid 
up  two  hours  too  late. 

Rudolph.  Great  S !  what  are  you  talking  of?     I  sent 

my  wife  to  pay  the  premium. 

Stranger,  And  she  sent  the  bookkeeper — and  he  got  there 
too  late. 

Rudolph.  Then  I  am  ruined?  [Pause. 

Stranger.  Are  you  crying? 

Rudolph.  I  am  ruined! 

Stranger.  Well,  is  that  something  that  cannot  be  borne? 


scene  ii         AFTER    THE     FIB  E 

Rudolph.  How  am  I  to  live?     What  am  I  to  do? 

Stranger.  Work! 

Rudolph.  I  am  too  old — I  have  no  friends 

Stranger.  Perhaps  you'll  get  some  now.  A  man  in  mis- 
fortune always  seems  sympathetic.  I  had  some  of  my  best 
hours  while  fortune  went  against  me. 

Rudolph.  [Wildly]  I  am  ruined! 

Stranger.  But  in  my  days  of  success  and  fortune  I  was 
left  alone.     Envy  was  more  than  friendship  could  stand. 

Rudolph.  Then  I'll  sue  the  bookkeeper. 

Stranger.  Don't! 

Rudolph.  He'll  have  to  pay 

Stranger.  How  little  you  have  changed!  What's  the  use 
of  living,  when  you  learn  so  little  from  it ,? 

Rudolph.  I'll  sue  him,  the  villain! — He  hates  me  because 
I  gave  him  a  cuff  on  the  ear  once. 

Stranger.  Forgive  him — as  I  forgave  you  when  I  didn't 
demand  my  inheritance. 

Rudolph.  What  inheritance? 

Stranger.  Always  the  same!  Merciless!  Cowardly!  Dis- 
ingenuous!— Depart  in  peace,  brother! 

Rudolph.  What  inheritance  is  that  you  are  talking  of? 

Stranger.  Now  listen,  Rudolph — my  brother  after  all: 
my  own  mother's  son!  You  put  the  stone-cutter  in  jail  be- 
cause he  did  some  erasing — all  right !  But  how  aboul  your 
own  erasures  from  my  book,  "Christopher  Columbus,  or  the 
Discovery  of  America"? 

Rudolph.  [Taken  aback]  What's  that?     Columbus? 

Stranger.  Yes,  my  book  that  became  yours! 
Rudolph  remains  silent. 

Stranger.  Yes,  and  I  understand  now  that  it  was  yon 
who  put  the  student's  lamp  in  the  closet — I  understand  every- 


276  AFTER     THE     EIRE 


SCENE  II 


thing.  But  do  you  know  that  the  dinner-table  was  not  of 
ebony? 

Rudolph.  It  wasn't? 

Stranger.  It  was  nothing  but  maple. 

Rudolph.  Maple! 

Stranger.  The  pride  and  glory  of  the  house — valued  at 
two  thousand  crowns! 

Rudolph.  That,  too?     So  that  was  also  humbug! 

Stranger.  Yes! 

Rudolph.  Ugh! 

Stranger.  Thus  the  debt  is  settled.  The  case  is  dropped 
— the  issue  is  beyond  the  court — the  parties  can  with- 
draw  

Rudolph.  [Rushing  out]  I  am  ruined! 

Stranger.  [Takes  his  wreath  from  the  table]  I  meant  to 
take  this  wreath  to  the  cemetery — to  my  parents'  grave — 
but  I  will  place  it  here  instead — on  the  ruins  of  what  was 
once  their  home — my  childhood's  home!  [He  bends  his  head  in 
silent  prayer]  And  now,  wanderer,  resume  thy  pilgrimage! 

Curtain. 


/ 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIRRAdv 

UN.VEBS.TYOFCAUFORN.AL.BRARV 

Los  Angeles 
Th1.booki.DUEon.h„a..d,«...an.p.-b...«.. 


6  IT0 


vZ 


mi 


tD/URfi  &  05*99 

*    $  mo 


4WJUN0H* 


50m 


n^ 


3  1158  00136  9528 


II 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


AA    000  720  775    6 


INfUWV 


